The Room
by fantasticly-anonymous
Summary: Sam learns what Dean's been doing up at Donna's cabin and he doesn't like it. He doesn't like it enough that he thinks up his own solution to their little Michael problem. A bit of a bottle episode, a 'What If' scenario, and a character exploration between the members of Team Free Will and the archangel thorn in Dean's mind. In which, nobody, not even the entire world has to die.
1. The New Plan

**This idea popped into my head as I finished the episode 'Damaged Goods' and the little bugger refused to leave me alone. So, here we are!**  
**Hope y'all enjoy this little Supernatural 'What If'!**

**This is what happens when Sam Winchester puts his mind to an impossible problem.**  
**He solves it.**

Driving home in separate vehicles, going practically straight to their rooms after that, the brothers Winchester didn't have much time for talking after the whole 'this is the only way the entire world doesn't go down in flames' revelation back at the barn. But that was probably a good thing. Because Sam really wasn't sure what he would have said, or possibly _done_, if there had been.

Suffice it to say that Sam did not like Dean's little sarcophagus, permanent dip in _the_ Pacific pond plan. In fact, he'd outright rejected it. On even a **theoretical** level.  
Not to Dean's face though. Not right away. That would've been a terrible idea.

No, Sam was determined to show Dean just how ridiculous and unnecessary his suicidally bent plan really was, so once the both of them had had some time to calm down, the taller brother had confronted the older and proposed his own solution to their little Michael problem. In the form of a drawing.  
Or, more like schematics that had taken him half the night to think up and the majority of the next day to commit to paper. Blueprint paper. Blueprint paper at which Dean had just shaken his head and chuckled.

"Well, Sammy, what _will_ you and that egg head of yours think up next?"

"I-it'll work. I swear-uh, _promise_ it will. It has to," Sam said, voice earnest as he smoothed the large rectangle with one giant palm. "And what's wrong with the shape of my head?"

"Oh, nothin'," Dean said, in a way that made it sound like he was withholding information. "But, uh, _this_," he said with a wave at the blue paper on the wooden tabletop, "crazy as it is, really does look like it could work. If a build like this was something folks like us could actually pull off."

"Maybe it wouldn't be possible for folks like _you_," suggested a voice that made the brothers jump, "but for folks like me?"

"Cas?" Sam heard himself ask.

"You could see that from all the way over there?" Sam heard Dean ask.

"Yes and yes. Respectively," the angel said with a nod to each hunter in turn. Before shutting and locking the bunker's main point of entry behind him. "I am indeed myself, and my eyesight is as good as ever." Sam raised an eyebrow and Dean gave a snort while Cas came down the stairs from the front door.  
"I came as soon as I could, Dean. I had a little car trouble on the way over," the angel admitted with a small grimace.

At that, Sam got a very 'the hell, man?' look from Dean, which was honestly a lot better than the younger brother'd been expecting.  
When Cas came to stand before them though, Dean addressed the angel as if he wasn't totally peeved. Which was _way_ better than Sam had been expecting. Honestly.

"Well, good to have you home, Cas, but what's this about 'us folks' and 'me folks'?" Dean asked, brow furrowed.

"I simply meant that, with the assistance of my admittedly rather limited divine grace and my fluency in Enochian, Sam's well thought out, beautifully inscribed idea, could very well be brought to reality."

"Come again?" Dean asked with a tilt of his head.

"You think my sketch is beautiful?" Sam couldn't stop himself from blurting.

"Of course. The senses of depth and perspective are nothing short of art," Cas said as if it was a simple matter of fact. To which, the artist just about blushed.

"That's a _sketch_?" To that, Sam gave Dean a long suffering look as Cas came between them to inspect the blueprint properly.

"Yes, it would surprise me more if it turned out we failed to finish this successfully than not," the shortest out of the three said. The finger of an outstretched hand tracing one of the numerous sigil along the sketch's borders. "After all, Dean already has the instructions and the first hand knowledge, having already successfully constructed a _sarcophagus_ of this basic design. In secret," the accusation coming out only as biting as it deserved to be. "An entire, generously sized, free standing cage should not be so different. If one stretches their imagination. A little."

"Wow, listen to Mr. Doom And Gloom over here," Dean said, looking over Cas's head to catch his baby brother's reaction.

Sam, _not_ giving Dean the satisfaction, kept his eyes front and-

"I don't understand; I'm not being negative at all," informed a Cas who's face had taken a turn towards full blown confusion. "In fact, I'm pretty sure I'm being encouraging."

"Uh, yeah, Cas, we know," Sam huffed with a reassuring smile. "But, a cage wasn't what I had in mind, per se, while I was designing this thing. More along the lines of... a room, maybe? Somewhere Dean could visit when needed, or maybe _live_, if it came to that," he said, giving said brother a sidelong looking over. Trying to gauge his reaction.

"You want to give _Michael_ a man cave?" Dean accused.

"No, I **want** to keep you out of the Marianas Trench. And alive and _with_ us. And I think this is the way to make that happen. Even if only until we find a more permanent solution. And besides, you already said it looked like it could work," Sam said. Trying, with marginal success, to reign in his reflexive, younger brother, 'so there' tone.

"Is that so? Well, in that case, what say you, Dean? Are you willing to give this- uh, this Room a shot?" The angel asked, turning to the hunter in question.  
When there was hesitation, Sam watched as Cas's expression softened that last bit and the angel put a hand on Dean's shoulder. Approximately where he had those so many years ago, and where the proof of that encounter had once stood for the world to see. Angry and pink and righteous. "The world is a better place with you in it, I assure you."

"Thanks, Cas. You're not so bad yourself," Dean said, making no attempt to shake off the angelic touch. Looking, to Sam anyway, like he might be hiding a blush.

"Alright then," Sam started with a clap, "it's settled. We start work in the morning. Dean, you're making breakfast." Sam chuckled when the statement got him two surprised faces. "We're gonna need it."

"If you don't mind Sam, I'd like to study the schematic further and potentially make a few Enochian suggestions for the warding."

"Yeah, please," the hobby-architect said, motioning for Cas to 'have at it'. "And I'll look up where we can get our hands on that much fallout shelter grade metal."

"Good luck with that," Dean said with a note of derision. "It was hard enough finding as much as I did. Besides, it needs to be consecrated in fire _and_-"

"Oh yeah, Cas, the back has the plans for the interior," Sam said. Cutting off Dean as if the man haven't even spoken.

"Excellent. I hadn't given that a thought," said Cas as he turned the paper over. "Ah, that's right. We'll have to build the floor as well."

"Right?" Agreed the architect in the room. "Because it basically has to be a big box."

"A big box to hold a very bad angel."

"Bad enough that those sigils need to be _permanent_. I'm thinking, to make them smite proof: we weld them."

"Amazing, Sam. You're attention to detail is commendable," Cas said, tone a little more than impressed.

"Seriously? What am I, chopped liver?" Deena said with a scowl tilting toward petulant.

"No, Dean. You're the guy we're going to save. And we're not gonna give up on you, no matter how badly you might want us to," Sam said with a victorious smirk.

"Yes, Dean, there will be no giving up. In this, we are together until the mission is completed. Successfully," Cas tacked on. A small smile gracing his face.

"I- I don't _want_ anyone giving up anything. It's just... What if we're setting ourselves up for failure? Huh? What if we somehow build that crazy thing and- and we lull ourselves into a false sense of security and the world fries anyway?" The guy with an archangel locked away in his head asked, motioning towards the blueprint halfway through.

"Dean," Sam said as he took a step around their resident non-arch angel, closing the distance between brothers, "my idea's not 'crazy'. What's crazy is what _you_ were planning to do, okay?"

"He's right you know," Cas noted.

"And the world isn't gonna fry, man. I mean, come on, when have we ever _not_ been able to stop the apocalypse?" Dean's eyes grew in the face of Sam's sheer logic.

"Apocalypse World," Cas said. Inadvertently bringing all eyes to himself. "Perhaps we can forget that one."

"No, that's a good point, Cas," Sam said with an earnest nod. " The only world we know of where we didn't stop the Apocalypse is one where we were never born. If that doesn't make for good odds, then I don't know what does."

"Well, sounds like now my plan's Plan B," Dean said with a rather bemused tilt to his eyebrows. Before giving his hands a firm clap. "So, what do you two chuckleheads want for breakfast?"

At that, the entire room smiled.

**Yep. Not gonna happen on the show, especially not with ep. 11 and all, but I thought I'd throw my two cents out there!**  
**Feel free to lemme know what you think so far and please take comfort in the knowledge that Chapter two should be right around the corner! ;D**


	2. No Rest For The Weary

**After a good night's sleep and a big breakfast, everyone's ready to tackle the monumental task ahead.**  
**Though Dean might be a little less ready than he lets on.**

Wiping his hands against his pants to rid them of that last bit of residual 'fresh washed' moisture, Dean took the hallway that led to the cavernous, virtually unused Men Of Letters chamber Sam had mentioned over breakfast they'd be using for this little 'project' of theirs.

The sight that greeted him as he rounded the last corner though nearly stopped him cold and for a moment, all Dean could do was stare.

The sheer volume of industrial sized sheets and chunks of blast proof metal Dean saw heaped in there didn't just confuse; it baffled.  
"Hey, uh, Sam, Cas," he asked when he noticed them standing to one side, "how in the _hell_ did you two get all of this in here?"

"Uh, I have an entire team of experienced, Apocalypse World hunters at my disposal. Remember? With enough help, anything is possible," Sam said with a shrug, the straight-up delivery enough to get Dean to double take.

"They brought it in through the late night and early morning. While you were sleeping," Cas informed. "And then while you were preparing breakfast, and while we were eating it, and also when you were washing _all_ of the dishes and the range and –"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. Thanks, Cas", Dean said. Nodding at the angel. "Damn, Sam, guess I hadn't realize just how much of a leader you are to those sorry sons and daughters of-"

"Uh, yeah, they trust me to do the right thing and they... listen to a lot of what I have to say. I never expected anything like that to happen either," Sam admitted with eyes close to downcast.

"Well, can't say you didn't earn it," Dean said with a pointed incline of his head.

"Heh, well, what say we go look through the haul?" Sam said with a self conscious chuckle. "After we sort it we could consecrate it piece by piece or-"

"Or, as Sam and I were discussing, after you had gone to bed last night, we could build the entire thing and _then_ consecrate it. With copious amounts of holy oil anointing the interior as well as the exterior. Then we can put out the flames with as much holy water as we can generate," Cas said with a proud raise of his chin.

"…We gonna pump that through the sprinkler system?" Dean asked as he rubbed at his chin. Thinking through the logistics and already dreading just how many prayers they were going to have to say before this mess was over and done with.

"Yes," Cas confirmed with a pleased nod. "With the assistance of a little angelic intervention, I believe that I can purify all of the water in the bunker's pipes at once."

"Like, a miracle?" Asked a Dean who soon realized that the growing smile on the angel's face should be answer enough, but decided to wait for the official word anyway. Just in case.

"Yes," the angel confirmed.

"And this place has a _lot_ of pipes, a-and reserve tanks, so we're going to be showering in holy water for-"

"The foreseeable future," Cas cut in, looking almost creepily excited by the prospect.

"Yeah, or else dousing this thing multiple times. Depending on what seems necessary," Sam finished. Obviously not minding the interruption.

"Wow," said Dean, impressed with just how much effort the two had already put into the planning stage. "So, where do we start?"

"We have more equipment to bring in; welding torches, masks, co2 tanks," Sam listed off, holding up a finger for each.

"Laser squares for making sure everything is straight, lambs blood- Suffice it to say, we have all the necessary materials and that the next step will be organizing them and finalizing plans for the build," Cas summarized.

"About the build: the thing I haven't been able to figure out yet," Sam said with a pensive look, "is how we're going to regulate the temperature of the steal to maintain its structural integrity through consecutive, or at least multiple, fire and water purifications," Sam admitted. Worrying his lip as he gave Dean a sidelong look.

"Ah, because it can't be insulated against the heat of the holy oil's sacred fire," Cas clarified.

"Right, exactly, because that would weaken the warding's integrity, but if we need to do that- uh, renew the sacrament, every now and then, just to be on the safe side, then..."

"Rock, meet Hard Place."

"Dean, I hardly think this is the time for jokes," Cas said, turning to look at the chef of the Winchester family.

"No? Because right about now, you two are startin' to sound pretty funny. Wasn't it just last night you were all 'we can do it', and now it's 'but we don't know how'?" The questioning scowl at the end got both the tallest and shortest in the room averting their eyes. Though, resolutely not out of guilt.

"There's just... a few things we need to get figured out before we can be sure we'll have a viable final product," Sam said in the least mumbly tone he could muster.

"Yes, as you say, Dean, can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs," Cas said, tone encouraging.

"Yeah, except this egg," Dean said, pointing with a rigid forearm to the side of his own head, "we can't _afford_ to break. Not even **crack**. End of the world, remember?"

"Yeah, Dean, we remember, and that's what we're working to _prevent_, okay? But you gotta trust us to do this part, okay? Because Cas and me? We're gonna figure this out and when we do, you're gonna _thank_ us instead of laughing in our faces for **caring** about you."

The balk didn't look natural on Dean's face. Wasn't the kind of expression a Winchester was meant to make. Like he couldn't fathom why Sam would possibly _want_ to care. Let alone get defensive about it.  
The apologetic glint to Sam's eyes and the regretful tilt to his lips also didn't look right. After all, how often did a Winchester do anything without the best of intentions?

The angel just looked lost, like he was unsure whether he should comfort, or perhaps chastise. Or even give the brother's some time to talk between themselves while he... saw to other matters.

In the end, the decision was made for him as Dean turned on one heal and left the room. Leaving two evermore confused hunters behind to wonder what exactly it was they were going to do. About everything.


	3. Harsh Much?

**Cas learns something that Dean had hoped would stay private.**  
**Sam learns just how dire their little Michael situation really is and starts to think that, maybe, Dean's sarcophagus plan hadn't been quite so radical an overreaction as Sam'd thought.**

"Do you think I was too hard on him?" Sam asked, readjusting the large box he was carrying.

"I think that Dean is having a hard time in this and that he is handling everything as well as can be expected," Cas said as they rounded the last corner and re-entered the build chamber.

"So, you _do_ think I was too hard on him?"

"Sam, in this, you too are handling things as well as can be expected," Cas assured as the two of them set down their boxes by the growing heap of new equipment.

"That's not an actual answer," Sam pointed out as he stood to stretch out his back. Cas not sure how worried he should be about the _several_ resulting pops that the action produced.

"...In truth, I have been giving him the requisite 'cool down' time so that I might check on him myself," Cas admitted, avoiding Sam's eyes for just a moment. Hoping the hunter didn't take it harshly.

"Well, this is the last of it, so I'll start putting things where they need to be and you can do what you gotta do," Sam suggested, with a glance around at their newly moved in equipment, voice more supportive than Cas had been expecting.

"Are you sure, Sam? There is still quite a bit to move," Cas said with a quick glance around the cavernous space.

"Go. Be a good friend. I'll be fine," Sam, the Saint, insisted. Practically shooing Cas away when the angel hesitated out of concern for the hunter's exceedingly long, unusually vocal back.

In the end, knowing Sam wasn't the kind to hurt himself executing a task as simple as the one Cas was leaving him to, the angel began his walk at a brisk pace. Which he maintained until he had reached the correct hall and was within sight of the door to Dean's room. Where the angel **knew** he would find the downtrodden hunter.  
And where he was surprised to find the door an uncharacteristic few inches ajar.

"May I come in?" Cas asked as he stopped at the appropriate spot in the hallway.

"It's a free country," came the response from the gloom that was Dean's under-lit bedroom.

"That's not actual permission," the angel pointed out, staying right where he was outside the strangely, slightly open door.

"...Yeah, come on in."

"Dean," started Cas as he stepped passed the threshold, "you are aware that Sam and I care for you, are you not?" He resisted the urge to flip on the lights as he spied the lone shadow sitting on the edge of the bed. The lone shadow that wasn't answering him. "Dean," he said as he stopped in front of the silent hunter, "you know we _love_ you, don't you?"

"Stop it," the only thing the sullen Winchester said. Voice a hushed whisper.

"I will not 'stop it', Dean, it's the truth and you need to accept it. Before it's too- No, it'll _never_ be too late, but you can't rebuff your brother's and my efforts to help- our **love** for you forever. Eventually you'll be forced to face reality-"

"Just stop for one lousy minute," Dean interrupted, not even looking at the angel.

"Dean!" Cas near shouted as he reached out and took one hunched, human shoulder in his hand and-  
And the momentary lost look it caused caught the angel completely by surprise.

"Cas?" Asked a Dean who then glanced around as if getting his bearings.

"You weren't talking to _me_, were you?" The angel asked, giving his friend a more thorough looking over. Displeased when he noticed for the first time the, admittedly rather subtle, darkened circles under his eyes.

"What? Talking?" Dean asked as he shook his head and blinked. Hard.

"Yes, remember? I asked if I could come in, you said that it's a 'free country', I asked permission a second time, you granted it, I walked in, you-"

"Yeah, I remember. That much, anyway," the hunter assured, pinching the bridge of his nose with a grimace.

"You're having memory problems?" Cas asked, feeling his adrenaline take an automatic spike at the idea.

"No," Dean said, voice firm. "No, more like archangel problems. Michael's... tireless, let's say."

"He's trying to escape? Even now?" Cas asked, voice sounding only half as worried as he felt. Knowing Dean did not appreciate being 'mollycoddled'.

"He hasn't _stopped_ trying since we locked him in there. The guy's doing his damnedest to bust down that door and the only thing stopping him is me. And I'm only one person, Cas," Dean said in a very... powerless sort of way. One which prompted Cas to turn and sit on the edge of the bed, so that he could more easily offer comfort to his friend.

"I did not know the extent of- Michael truly allows you **no** peace?" The angel couldn't stop himself from asking, troubled by the concept as he was.

Dean shook his head and scrubbed a hand across his face before answering.  
"Some nights it gets bad enough I can't sleep," the hunter admitted, as if speaking some shameful secret.

"I suppose to Michael, there is no 'day' and 'night'; only 'rage' and 'escape'."

"You're telling _me_," Dean agreed, tone wry yet morose.

"Why did you not tell Sam or myself sooner?" Cas asked, trying not to feel hurt by the secret so long kept.

"Wouldn't'a made a difference," Dean asserted with a flippant lilt.

"Regardless," Cas started as he leaned toward the hunter and put an arm around the stooped back, "now that your brother and I have a plan and the means with which to complete it, it _will_ make a difference. I'll see to that." The assurance spoken as the angel gave his friend's upper body a one armed squeeze, akin to a hug. Then Cas stood and gave Dean one more looking over.  
"You do look as though you could use some rest."

"Make you a deal: I take a nap; _you_ stop your bellyaching," the hunter proposed, motioning towards the pillow at one end of the bed.

"Yes, were you to take a nap, my 'bellyaching' would indeed be put on hold," Cas assured with a pleased look.

"Fine then," Dean said as he stretched himself out, hands behind his head in a comfortable lounging position. "Happy?"

"Hm, one more thing," Cas said as he stepped over to the radio and turned the well preserved thing on. "A little music to lull you."

"Nothin' like Ozzy singin' you a bedtime story," Dean admitted with a contented sigh.

"Have a nice nap, Dean. Sam and I will not be far," Cas assured before he exited the room and closed the door behind him. _Most_ of the way. Feeling compelled to leave it ajar as he had found it upon his arrival, the angel did just that and then stayed where he was until the sonorous wailings of Black Sabbath transitioned smoothly into the guttural, heart pounding drum work of Alex Van Halen.

Then, knowing Dean was in good hands, Cas turned from the door and began his way back to whence he'd come. Smiling when he heard the soft sounds indicative of snoozing follow him down the hall.

XxxXxxxxxxxxXxxxxxXxxxxxxxxxxXxXxx

"Sam, Dean is not suicidal."

"Um, okay- Where did _that_ come from," Sam asked of the angel sweeping into the room. And straight for him.

"Remember his original plan to throw himself into the Pacific Ocean in-"

"Yeah, of _course_, but what-"

"Dean does not wish for death," the angel said, quite matter of factly, as he came to a stop an arm's length from where Sam stood, holding an overly full, cumbersome box.

"Did you think he did?" Sam asked, feeling his face pale at the thought.

"...No, not truly," Cas admitted after a short, uncertain pause. "But based on your earlier outrage, I assumed that _you_ had."

"So I **was** too hard on him. Great," Sam said, feeling his shoulders droop as he heaved a defeated sigh.

"The blame lies with both of us, Sam," Cas said in a tone riding the line between accusation and absolution. "We should have spoken to Dean about this far sooner. Before he became so desperate as to resort to his original 'plan'."

"Yeah, I kinda got that when he showed me that... _thing_, back at Donna's," Sam said with a self-deprecating huff.

"But, Sam, I just spoke with him and it's worse than _I'd_ thought," said the angel, voice tightening just noticeably.

"_What's_ worse?" Sam asked, finally bending to set down the box he'd been moving. Before Cas had rolled in like a category one hurricane.

"He has been concealing from us, and rather well I might add, the true toll keeping Michael at bay has been taking on him. Physically as well as mentally." The grim set to the angel's jaw had Sam's even fuller attention and the hunter ended up setting down the box of brand new welding materials a little faster than he'd meant to.

"Is he okay? Do we need to-"

"I don't foresee the need for any rash intercession, thank God," Cas assured. Hands on his hips as he gave his lips a good purse. "I do think though, that this project," the angel said with a nod towards the piles upon piles of construction metal, "deserves our undivided attention. _Both_ of ours."

"Right, uh, well, at least we know where to go from here," Sam said, one hand combing through his hair, trying to smooth the ruffled mind hidden underneath. "Uh, I'll start setting up the welding stations while you mark out the build perimeter?" He suggested, holding up a tape measure and rattle can of red paint. Both plucked from a box he'd already moved to the appropriate place in the room.

"With pleasure," Cas said as he accepted both items. But instead of moving off immediately, the angel looked up into the hunter's face and gave Sam a soft though serious look before adding, "He's having difficulty concentrating. I fear he has for a while, and that we have simply not noticed. Or perhaps, _chosen_ not to notice. For his sake, we must finish this Room... soon." Then the angel gave a small, encouraging smile and walked off to start on the first of many, equally important, Room building prep tasks.

Leaving Sam standing there, feeling like he'd once again let his big brother down in a way he could only hope he'd get a chance to put right. Before it was too late.


	4. Soccer Mom

**Ever wake up ****_hungry_****? Yeah. That.**

Dean knew that he slept better to music. Always had. Even as a babe. Or, at least, that's what Mary'd told him. Couple years back.

He knew that silence wasn't his best friend and yet he'd grown used to dealing with it over the years of sharing a motel room with Sam 'The Light Sleeper' Winchester. Grown so used to it that he'd thought he'd broken the habit.  
Besides, he generally slept at night these days and there were usually other people on the same schedule in the bunker while he did it and, long story short, he didn't want to disturb them. Or, if he was being honest, he didn't want anyone else knowing about his old music to sleep dependence.

But when he woke up to The Eagles telling him all about their Peaceful Easy Feeling, all Dean could do was thank Cas for being as... well, _Cas_ as he was. The angel was right, after all: He'd just needed some one-on-two time with the radio and his pillow to get a little shut eye.  
Dean figured it made sense that the angel would know what he needed better than he did. They did share a 'profound bond' after all.  
Cas's words; not his.

But, as he rubbed the last of the sleep from his nap weary eyes, it was Dean's turn to know what it was the only good angel in his life needed. So the hunter pulled himself from his bed, turned off his trusty radio, and started stumbling his 'refreshed' carcass towards the kitchen, where he had earlier lain the plans for a lip smacking, stick to your ribs, honkin' _huge_ lunch. One fit for the guys working their asses off trying to keep him from the bottom of a deep, deep pond.

Dean suppressed a shiver as he rounded the corner into the kitchen, muscling his mind from the dark direction it had turned and back onto the task at hand: Lunch.

His range gleaming, ready, and waiting, and all his ingredients arranged just as he'd left them, Dean started up the fire and got cooking. Mouth threatening to water when his stomach reminded him that it was lunch time for him as well.

Got bad enough that he had to hold himself back from eating the fresh sautéed bell peppers and onions straight off the grill as he scooted them to one side, making room in the center for the pièc de résistance: a hefty serving of thin sliced Philly style steak.

Hands working quick and sure, Dean smiled to himself when his mouth _did_ start watering, not able to resist as the delicate layers of beef began to turn from pink to grey and started giving off a distinctly 'food' aroma.

It was an exercise in self-control not to forget about food safety and snatch the double handful of barely not raw animal product up and burn his mouth on it there and then.  
Somehow though, Dean managed to simply dig his spatula under the steaming heap and flip it for a nice even cook.

Taking a big whiff of delicious on a grill, Dean thought about how rare it had been for him to find time to flex his culinary prowess while Sam and he had been on the road. After all, very few of the motels they'd stayed in came with a kitchenette and even then, hunters generally didn't have all that much wiggle room in their schedules for home cooked meals. Unless of course, a good old salt and burn counted.

Naw, having a stable home with a fully stocked kitchen, multiple bedrooms, garages- **all** the amenities, was really growing on him. 'Was exactly the kind of thing he'd never thought he'd get. Let alone get to _keep_-

And there, Dean's mind went frigid when he realized that _this_ was one of the things he'd be giving up... when he took up permanent residence in a cold, barren, unforgiving archangel proofed box. Whether of Sam's design or his own.  
One way or the other, he'd never cook in this kitchen again. Not once Michael got free. Not once that door finally gave under those unyielding, _tireless_, **banging** fists.

It was the crackle and hiss of beef on the cusp of burning that brought Dean back to himself, and not a moment too soon, as the smell of a nice char registered and he flipped the serving before it could suffer unforgivable damage.  
He'd eat that one, he told himself as he took a steadying breath and glanced around the kitchen. No harm, no foul, he thought as it confirmed he was the only one in there.

One more centering, Michael ignoring breath and the cook applied his mind anew to the sculpting of the beautiful, juicy, heap of thin sliced beef in front of him. Adding the second serving to the range as the first reached the peak of seared perfection and got put on a plate for safe keeping.

Soon as he had the food together, Dean arranged the three fit to burst buns on a large serving platter and made for the build site. The one, almost burnt culinary specimen getting an introduction to his eager gullet as he walked, disappearing right as he rounded the last corner and caught sight of a Sasquatch and an angel, noses to the grindstone and no indication of stopping anytime soon.  
Good thing Dean was there to do something about that.

"Yo, food's up!" Dean smirked when two heads jerked his way. Doubly so when the chunks of metal Sam and Cas had been inspecting got tossed to the ground without a second thought. Forgotten like the scrapyard refuse they likely were.  
"You two better be hungry," he said even as he was pretty sure he could _see_ Cas licking his lips in anticipation.

"You didn't have to do this, Dean. We could've ordered out," Sam said as the giant lumbered up and eyed the largest sandwich on the tray. Of course.

"Yeah, well, makes it more fun when you don't _have_ to," Dean said, nodding when his brother reached out and took said sandwich with an appreciative look.

"Is that beef?" Cas asked with a tentative hand moving to scoop up the sole remaining lunch item.

"Dude, it's a Philly cheesesteak, not the Holy Grail," Dean said. Snorting when the angel gave him a first puzzled, then comprehending, _then_ good natured look.  
"Bon appétit," he said as he tucked the newly empty tray under one arm. Confused when neither luncher started gobbling right then and there.

"So, after lunch," Sam started, shifting his sandwich from one hand to the other, "we're ready to start welding. You want to pick out an arc and show us the ropes?"

Huh. _Not_ what Dean'd been expecting.  
"Yeah, sure, I could show you noobs how it's done. Pop your welding cherries."

"Dude, we don't need that imagery while we're eating. Or _ever_, actually," Sam said with a cringe. One Dean couldn't help but snicker at.

"Tell the truth, I was startin' to feel like an underappreciated soccer mom. Stuck in the kitchen, makin' sandwiches for the team while the kids had all the fun," Dean said as the 'kids' finally dug into their still steaming meal.

"I assure you, Dean, these sandwiches are greatly appreciated," Cas garbled around a _large_ mouthful of perfectly prepared cheesesteak.

"Yeah, thanks for these. They're great," Sam managed around his mouthful.

"Well, keep those compliments comin' if you want a home cooked dinner, 'cause this chef don't work for free," Dean said with a double thumbed gesture at himself.

"But, why have you already given us lunch if we haven't paid for breakfast yet?" Cas asked, looking at his sandwich as if he'd just realized it was stolen property.

"Don't worry, Cas, he's just messing with us. Right, Dean?" Sam asked as he got ready to inhale another good quarter of his beefsteak on a bun.

"Hey, don't forget to tip your waiter," the chef said in lieu of a proper answer. Which seemed to only confuse the hungry angel further.

"It's alright, Cas. Enjoy your sandwich," Sam encouraged.

"Yeah, a growing angel needs his strength," Dean said, barely holding in a bought of chuckles at the face it got from said 'youngster'.

Cas turned to Sam for answers, but, to Dean's unending amusement, all he got was a shake of a long haired head.  
"Don't encourage him; once he gets started-"

"Wind me up; watch me go," Dean said, finishing with a shallow bow.

"Regardless my... misunderstanding, I thank you for the food. I know it can't be easy, preparing delicious meals for unappreciative 'boys'. In your condition," Cas tacked on, mouth curving into an impish smile.

"Woah, easy, Cas, I didn't think I was showing yet," Dean said, one hand moving to cover his lower abdomen as he caught on to the angel's joke.

"Apologies, Soccer Mom, but you have such a glow about you," Cas assured, smile scandalous.

The three of them couldn't hold in their laughter after _that_, and Dean marveled at how well the vaulted ceiling echoed the peals right back at them. His own voice coming back so clear and unmuddled. Almost reminding him of something. Of some_one_. Someone who was always echoing around inside his head. Even right then. Insisting he be granted his rightful freedom.  
**Demanding** he be let ou-

"Dean?"

Dean flinched, barely reigning in his fight or flight instincts as a hand came down on his shoulder. **Not** grabbing the thing and twisting it till it popped because he'd recognize that hand anywhere.  
It was too small to be Sam's after all.

It took a moment, but when he peeled his eyes from the middle distance he was greeted by the sight of two very close, very worried hunters. The shorter of which was still touching him.

"Dean?" Asked Sam this time, face... concerned.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean said. At a loss as to how to explain any of that away.

"You, uh, you just _stopped_, for a second there. You okay, man?" Sam asked, sounding as if he couldn't decide whether he was going for serious, or trying to lighten the mood.

"Yeah- yeah, I'm fine. Just haven't gotten a lot of sleep, last few days," Dean covered. Which, judging by the concerned glances the others exchanged, hadn't fooled anybody.

"No worries, we'll _all_ sleep better once this room gets built," Sam said, voice a sorry excuse for nonchalant.

Dean took the reassurance as the white flag it was obviously meant to be and moved to set the serving tray still sandwiched under his arm right outside the door. So they couldn't _possibly_ get any slag on it while he learned the rookies a thing or two about the importance of safety gear and always knowing what's around you before the black shield goes down.

Judging by the unsure look on Cas's face, and the way he fumbled his goggles when Sam tossed him a pair, this whole show and tell presentation was gonna be a full blown riot. Then, if fate had it follow the same pattern, the monkey see, monkey do part was gonna degenerate into an honest to God shit show.  
And Dean was gonna love every knee-slapping second of it.


	5. The Build

**Sam knows Dean isn't having an easy go of this, what with the archangel banging around in his head and all, but he can't help but be thankful for every hour they have left together. Nor help dreading when the time comes that he'll have to lock his brother in a ma'lak cell and pretend he doesn't have the key.**

Having Dean teach them the ropes had been Sam's best idea since he'd thought up this insane project.  
As it turned out, the guy was a lot better than Sam'd expected at the whole welding thing, and had the patience necessary to teach a Stanford book worm and an angel of the Lord a skill for which they were _definitely_ not cut out.

Not that either Sam nor Cas were necessarily ill suited for the job; just that the two of them had dedicated their lives to the pursuits of some _far_ removed professional skill sets.

Still, by the end of the day, there were three people in the bunker who could make a straight weld and not burn themselves horribly in the process and Sam couldn't help it when the words 'unqualified success' floated across his mind at the realization. After all, the closest thing to an arc welder Cas had ever used before had been a coffee machine in a gas and sip, and while both machines possess the ability to burn the user, one of them was at least reasonably safeguarded against such. And not even _vaguely_ gun shaped.

For Sam though, the weirdest thing about the whole experience was the unexpected smile on Dean's face when they broke to get ready for dinner and the impromptu teacher realized that the other two hadn't accidentally killed themselves playing around with their new toys.

Seeing his brother smile like that? That was how Sam knew that putting his and Cas's education in Dean's hands had been the best idea he'd had in quite a while.  
The three of them could use all the levity life had to throw at them. Considering what it was Dean was helping them build. And how soon they needed to have it finished.

Dinner was a rousing success which, like breakfast, all three of them ate in the kitchen, Sam doing his best through it all to hide just how bad he wished he could order some sort of salad to go with it.

Dean was under enough stress as it was and Sam figured the guy didn't need his own brother adding to the load. So instead, Sam smiled, chewed, and backed up every compliment Cas payed the admittedly well prepared, thoughtfully seasoned food. Because it _was_ good, and it _did_ fill the belly. It just also added to any existing plaque buildup their arteries were already suffering from.  
But for that proud, accomplished look on his soon to no longer be free brother's face? Sam could go salad free for a day or two.

After dinner, it was back at it and this time Dean had his 'pupils' doing more than just practicing on scraps they weren't going to be using on the actual project. No, this time they were laying out and welding the floor, starting at the center and working their ways out. The 'teacher' of the group flitting nonstop between the three of their ongoing parts of the soon to be flat surface. Making sure nobody lost a finger and correcting technique where necessary.

Thankfully, as the evening and then night wore on though, all that worrying got turned down a notch and Dean allowed himself to focus on his own work, which in turn made everything move faster than was previously possible. Before long, even Sam was confident he knew what he was doing. Mostly.  
Cas was a bit of a different story but Dean was keeping an eye on him, so Sam wasn't concerned about the angel maiming himself or burning something horribly. For the most part.

Eventually, even Cas got the hang of things and before 'late' had a chance to turn to 'early', all three hunters were welding at maximum efficiency. Or, at least, at their own 'noob' versions of such. Dean was still, understandably, more competent and therefore faster. Until around the time that the younger brother noticed they were suddenly all working at a similar pace.  
Not because Sam and Cas had improved that much that quickly, but because the guy who'd given two first timers a crash course in the fine art of welding was getting tired. Finally.

"Dean?" Sam asked of a heavily padded individual who hadn't _moved_ for the past... **several** seconds.

"Wha?" Exactly the kind of twitch-answer combo Sam had been expecting. He'd just been expecting it a little earlier. Seeing as they'd worked practically straight on through to morning by that point.  
Tell the truth, he was a little surprised he hadn't caught Dean spacing out more than he had. Having something to do with his hands must have helped keep his mind off... other matters.

"Maybe you wanna put down the torch for a while? You look like you're dead on your feet," Sam said in one of his less 'mother hen' tones.

"But there's an ass ton of stuff we haven't even _started_ on yet," Dean said, with more than a hint of 'hell no' coloring the statement.

"Well, we've got the foundation, the uprights, the struts, and the cross beams in place," Sam pointed out as he raised an arm and wiped some sweat off his forehead. "Why don't you go get some shut eye while Cass and I start on the paneling?"

The obstinate look Dean gave him at the suggestion had Sam ready to launch an argument about taking care of yourself and how the guy with the archangel in his head wasn't going to be much use if he fell asleep in the middle of a weld, but the expression broke before either of them could get going.  
Instead, Dean looked between the two other torch wielders, every inch as singed and filthy as him, far _more_ so in Cas's case, if Sam was being honest, and sighed.

"You two gonna burn the bunker down if I leave you alone in here?"

"Dean, you taught us everything you know. I think we'll be fine," Sam said with a good-natured huff.

"Yes, and even if we _were_ to set fire to something, the sprinklers would put it out before any real harm could befall these halls," Cas added with a reassuring nod.

"...Alright then," Dean said as he began peeling himself out of his protective gear, reluctance clear in every movement. "But remember to check Billie's book when-"

"Yeah, Dean, we know," Sam assured. Not needing to hear the rest of it on account of how many times Dean had already told them exactly the same thing.

"Alright, but call if you have trouble with the translations or-"

"That's what I'm here for, Dean," Cas reminded, taking the apron and gloves and mask from Dean when it became obvious the tired hunter had no idea where to put them.

"Right, right, but if-"

"Seriously, Dean, we have everything under control," Sam insisted, having to _try_ to keep a chuckle from bubbling out at his brother's ridiculous reaction to being offered a break.

"...Cool," said Dean as he gave his hands an errant clap. "So, I'll see ya later then, I guess."

"Yeah, later," Sam agreed, watching the other Winchester inch his way for the exit.

"Don't break anything important while I'm gone," the last thing the guy who looked like he **really** needed some shut eye said before disappearing from sight completely.

"Should I check on him in, say, ten minutes?" Cas asked from where he was storing the extra safety gear.

"Better make it twenty. He might take a shower before laying down," Sam said with a nod.

"I should _hope_ so. Otherwise he'll need to launder his bedclothes."

Sam gave a short laugh but at the look Cas gave him for it, he really wasn't sure whether what the angel'd said was meant to be funny. So he cleared his throat and pointed to the next piece that needed work and the two of them got back to it. Hoping the while that the guy who'd given them a crash course in the fine art of welding went straight to his room for a nice little lie down.  
Dude deserved it after all.

XxxxxxxxXxxxxxxxXxxxxxxxXxxxxxxxXx

"Woah," came the very impressed voice of none other than Dean Winchester. Looking like he might actually have gotten some quality sleep while he'd been away. "You even got the _ceiling_ on!? How'd you manage **that**?"

"Sam's 'crew' came in to help with the heavy lifting. And with holding the higher panels up while we tacked them in place," Cas explained before Sam could even open his mouth. "How are you feeling, Dean? Was your rest productive?"

"Well, good morning to you too," Dean said, one eyebrow raised. "_You_ weirdos get any sleep?"

"Sam has introduced me to a thing called 'Monster' and it has certainly done as the can promised: I am fully energized," Cas said. As if it wasn't one of the strangest sentences he'd ever put together.

"...Okay," Dean said, after an incredulous blink. "Well, either of you Speedy Gonzales starving? 'Cause _I_-"

"Sam's 'crew' brought snacks and food from the surrounding towns when they came in. There is plenty for you as well," the angel Sam only then realized was sounding noticeably jittery said with a hand pointing off to one side.

"Huh," Dean commented as he followed the gesture, "complimentary continental breakfast? Awesome."

"Yeah, they figured we could use some fuel, and this way we can keep up our blood sugars without needing to break as often," Sam agreed. Brows furrowing to match his brother's when Cas pulled a single Twizzler from one pocket and bit off about half of the red licorice candy with a satisfied face. Before sticking the remainder back in said pocket.

"Swell, but I'm making lunch," Dean insisted, directing at Sam a meaningful, pointed look. Before making eye contact with an over sugared angel.  
"Maybe no more 'Monster' for the rest of the day, 'kay?"

"I can make no promises, but I shall take your counsel into serious consideration," Cas assured. While eyeing what appeared to be an untapped _bag_ full of nothing but the offending, neon colored cans.

"That's all I can ask," Dean said as he made a beeline for their breakfast of champions. Sam cringing when the guy dismissed the few prepackaged salads out of hand, but breathing a subtle sigh of relief when he also passed over the half dozen remaining donuts in the pink, grease dotted box.  
"So," started the hunter with the majority of an egg and ham sandwich in his mouth, "what're we doing next?"

"More panel welding. _Lots_ more," Sam said with a gesture toward a metal wall in obvious need of professional help.

"Well, back in the saddle again," Dean said, right before he shoved the rest of the breakfast sandwich in his mouth.

Several hours later saw every panel locked down tight and the three welders coming back to their build site from a protracted dinner break, refreshed and ready to at least _attempt_ another all nighter. Having worked straight on through to dinner seeing as Dean had gotten up not long before lunch time anyway.

"You're the only one who's done the sigil work before, wanna just _show_ us the first couple?" Sam suggested, face pointed in his brother's direction.

"Just line 'em out in chalk first, so you can't screw it up halfway through," Dean said as he shrugged into his slag peppered apron.

"Of course!" Cas said on a surprised breath. "Why didn't _I_ think of that?"

"Maybe 'cause you're on your fifth 'energy drink'?" Dean posited, shoving his hands snug down into his safety gloves.

"Yeah, Cas, maybe we can take it easy on those the rest of the day?" Sam suggested as he picked up his own apron and gloves.

"You mean, until midnight?" Cas asked, clutching the can tighter between his just perceptibly vibrating hands.

"He _means_ 'stop drinking that junk', **period**," Dean interjected, settling the helmet onto his head even as he gave his 'little' brother a disapproving look.

"What? I'm not the one who brought all that stuff down here," Sam defended with a gesture toward the largely exhausted heap of convenience store snacks and prepackaged 'food' items.

"Yeah, well you didn't _stop_ it from being brought down either, so this one's on you, compadre."

And that was the end of that, for before Sam had the chance to counter the argument, the senior worksite welder had picked up a large chunk of chalk, turned on the drop light they'd set up inside their project, and was already hard at it, marking out the Enochian sigil for containment. Billie's book balanced open in the crook of his off elbow as he referenced it for correct shape and placement.

With a perplexed huff, Sam grabbed a similarly sized hunk of chalk, stepped inside what would soon be a Ma'lak box so big that it needed warding on the inside as well as out, and peeked at the instructions before starting on a little warding graffiti of his own. Cas joining them as soon as he'd drained and crushed the offending can of turbo sugar which he promised would be his last. For the day.

Understandably, that night, around the time they started on the outer wardings, it was Cas who fell asleep on his feet. Finally crashing from the unbelievable level of caffeine he'd managed to pump in his veins in barely a day's time.  
Unlike Dean though, the angel was somehow able to get his shut eye standing upright, smack dab in the middle of a noisy build site. Weirder still, the angel was back at it again after about an hour, picking up right where he'd left off. As if he'd never dozed off to begin with.

Sam knew that he was pushing it too, seeing as he couldn't _remember_ the last time his head had touched a pillow, but there was no way he was stopping now. Not when all three of them were working in perfect sync and getting _so_ close to finished.  
Besides, he was only seeing double once every handful of minutes. He'd had worse more than once throughout his life. _Far_ worse at one strikingly unpleasant, Lucifer hallucination filled point.

Giving his head a good shake, Sam replanted his feet and finished with the divinity negation sigil he'd probably taken a little longer than necessary with, checking around to make sure the others were too engrossed in their own welding to have noticed his momentary brain fart.  
After all, he was allowed one of those every now and then.

XxxxxxxXxxxxxxXxxxxxxxXxxxxxxxXxxx

With the inscription of the last Enochian sigils, the whole team agreed that showers, naps, and a meal were all mandatory. In that order.

Hard to argue when there wasn't a one of them could keep their eyes open much longer, so Sam staggered off for his _much_ needed shower, buoyed by both a strong swell of accomplishment, and an equally strong undercurrent of dread.  
The Room would be finished anytime now and considering how eager Dean was for its completion, Sam was pretty sure that meant he was saying goodbye to his brother a whole hell of a lot sooner than he'd have preferred.

Of course, Sam thought as he took the turn into his room, he'd have preferred to stave off goodbye **forever**, but since when did he get what he wanted? When did _any_ of them for that matter?

With an exhausted full body sigh, Sam flopped down on his bed and allowed himself a few quiet moments to bemoan his and his entire family's horrible, rotten, _completely_ unfair luck.  
Then, deciding that a shower could wait until he stopped seeing double, Sam rolled his filthy, filthy self over and fell fast asleep. Hoping, even as his eyes closed with a clunk, that Dean and Cas were well on their ways to doing the same.


	6. Goodbye

**The Room is ****_finally_****complete. Damn it if that doesn't scare a few people.**

Dean had known he was going to lose the argument before he even got started, but he also knew that he had to at least try. Try to get his bookworm brother and their resident, featherheaded angel to see reason.  
But, as expected, the two flat out rejected the notion- **refused** to even consider his proposal that they weld the door shut behind him. Even though it was one of the most reasonable ideas he'd had all week.  
The two Couldn't _think_ with this ma'lak room being the only permanent solution to the whole Michael **going** to destroy the earth if he got loose problem. Not that he'd expected them to.

At the end of it, Sam and Cas got him to agree to a reinforced door, triple locked and barred. The deadbolts and keys to which would be charmed so that they would only work in the uncoerced hands of one or the other of them. No one else. That way, guaranteed, not even God himself was gonna be busting Michael out of his new digs.

With that reassurance, Dean just couldn't bring himself to deny his brother and his best friend the last shreds of hope they still had. The pie in the sky hopes that one day, and one day not too long from then, they were going to stumble across some sort of magical, well hidden, non-lethal answer to this archangel possession that didn't include Dean being locked in a metal box for the rest of eternity.

Still, didn't mean he was gonna go easy on them.

"Alright, so, one more time, _when_ is it okay to open the blast proof no-no door?" Dean asked as the flames of a holy oil bonfire scorched the air behind him, feeling like he was running a couple kindergarteners through the alphabet. For the eightieth time.

"Never," mumbled a begrudging angel, looking like someone had whizzed in his lemonade.

"And under _which_ circumstances is it okay to let Michael out of his timeout room?"

"None, Dean, we get it," Sam insisted with a hint of his patented kicked puppy look. "It's just, when we find another way- a _better_, more permanent fix-"

"_If_, Sammy," Dean cut in, tempering his insistence with as much sympathy as he could spare his poor, poor brother. "I hate to be the one bursting your bubble, but we've _tried_ finding another way and you need to know- _both_ of you need to get it through your thick skulls that this might be it. Full stop." When Cas moved to say something, Dean motioned for silence, gently as he could. "I know this stinks- downright **blows**, but I need to trust that you two can handle this. Otherwise... I'm figuring out how to weld that piece of hell shut from the inside." Then, at the no nonsense jabbing of a finger in the direction of the bright, holy burn of the Room, the others practically jumped out of their skins.

"You can't do that, Dean-"

"You mustn't suggest such _heinous_-"

And suddenly Dean had two unhappy hunters right up close and the rest of the rebuttals were lost in a surprisingly desperate jumble. Which he felt free to ignore until the two barely grownups remembered what 'personal space' was and backed off. Barely. Looking almost embarrassed with their little outburst.

"Don't even kid about stuff like that," Sam said in a way that came across half pleading.

"He wasn't kidding, Sam, but don't worry, I've taken care of the problem. For now," the angel said as his eyes lost the blue glow neither Dean nor his giant brother had noticed. Till then.

"Dude, did you seriously just **disappear** _all_ our welding gear?" Dean asked, after a quick glance down the hall. Where they'd had to move all the sensitive and potentially explosive materials while the consecration took effect.

"...We were done with it?" Cas justified, in a very unsure manner.

"Glad you care, buddy," Dean said with a perplexed, good natured shake of his head. "I'd do the same for you. Either of you," he said with a glance at Sam. Before his face went serious again. "Look, I don't wanna break up the love fest, but, uh, tell the truth? Michael's gettin' a little antsy up here," Dean admitted, hoping the others didn't catch the involuntary shiver when he raised his hand to indicate his head.  
"I know, I probably should've mentioned it earlier, but that self righteous dick with wings can sense _something_ out here and whatever he's sensing: he doesn't like it."

Sam and Cas exchanged a stricken look but didn't say anything. Which was better than Dean had been expecting. Honestly.

"Ever since we finished the warding the bastard's been throwing a _fit_, like, _full_-on drama queen, and I'm givin' him hell right on back- I'm holding that door tight as I can, but, no matter how much I **hate** sayin' it... I don't know how much longer I can keep it up."

"You couldn't sleep," Cas said, surprising Dean with how statement like it came out.

At Dean's reluctant nod, the hunter noticed the all too familiar look of loss that spread over Sam's face, darkening it and throwing every age line into sharper relief, making his brother look like he'd just gotten news that he would very soon be burying a loved one.

He was gonna kick Michael's ass for that.

"Is there something that you would like to do as the consecration and quenching run their course?" Cas asked, with a look of great weight settled over his ruffled features.

He was kicking Michael's ass for that too.

"Cook; eat; shoot the shit... together?" Dean suggested, striving to keep his voice steady. As if he was making plans for just any old meal. As if these weren't going to be their last hours spent as a real family.  
As if.

"In any particular order?" Cas asked in a distinctly approving tone.

"I was thinking, simultaneously," Dean said, with a tilt of his head. "I'll do the steak if you do the potatoes?"

"Potatoes I can handle," the angel in human's clothing said with a nod.

"I'll handle the salad," Sam threw out there, sounding like he might've been wanting to say just that for _quite_ some time.

"Well, _that's_ settled," Dean said, giving his eyebrows an exaggerated raise.

At that, the group shared in a muted smile and together turned to make for the kitchen. Dean walking between the others and clapping them on the back as they set off to fulfill the last wish of a man who they _knew_ there was a very real chance they would never come face to face with again.

XxxxxxxxXxxxxxxxxxxXxxxxxxxXxxxxxx

"Love you too, Mom. Yeah. Yeah, I'll tell him. Bye."

Dean set his phone down on his side table, right next to the rest of his worldly possessions, and with nothing but the clothes on his back and a head utterly **ringing** with the echoes of someone else's vengeful rage, he turned to leave the room he'd come to think of as his. Probably for the last time.

Hand on the outside doorknob, Dean decided that privacy wasn't something that an uninhabited room needed, so without pulling the door shut, he gave the decades old brass a pat and headed off. Not glancing back when he thought he heard the hinges give a creak. Even though he oiled them regularly.

"'Bye' to you too," he said as he took the turn out of his hall, one corner of his mouth quirking without his permission.

"Hey," Dean was greeted as he met up with the two who'd thought up, designed, and built the impossible in order to keep him from a watery, _early_grave.

"Hey," he said right on back. Impressed by Sam's casual demeanor. Until he saw the telltale tightness around the guy's jaw. And eyes. And **body**.

"Hello, Dean. I'm glad that you're mother is doing well," Cas said with a pleased look.

"Hey, what I tell ya 'bout listening in on phone conversations?" Dean asked, crossing his arms for emphasis.

"...That it's rude," the angel said in an almost self-deprecating way.

"Bingo," Dean said with a wry tilt of his head. "Reminds me: Mom says she loves you and that you better call. _Frequently_," he informed, flicking his eyes back to his stiff as hell brother.

"Uh, thanks. I will," said brother said with a bobbing nod.

"Yeah, you better," Dean warned, making sure it came out more joking than anything else. Then, after a short group chuckle, he motioned to the chamber which housed his new, potentially permanent, residence.  
"Time to get this show on the road."

With that, the three began the walk through the chamber's door and over to the stark and fully warded face of a room sized ma'lak box. A walk that Dean would never willingly admit made him feel like a death row inmate, being escorted to his unfortunate, state ordered demise.

At least he wasn't wearing orange.

Coming to a stop mere feet from the Enochian emblazoned door, Dean found himself collecting his concentration with a deep breath. The realization that he hadn't been able to hear any of their footsteps over the angelic tantrum in his head, even in that cavernous, echoey space, throwing him for a loop.  
"What?" He asked, probably a little louder than necessary, when he turned and saw Cas's mouth moving.

With an understanding look, the angel started again. "You know that I was joking the other day, right, Dean? I don't actually think you look pregnant."

"Thanks, Cas. Though I gotta admit, it kinda feels like I've been living for two recently." The responding chuckles made Dean smile. Just a little. Before he made the mistake of looking the others directly in their sad, _sad_ faces.  
"I'm gonna miss you guys and I can't thank you enough for- for building this ugly piece of hell for me. Nicest thing anyone's ever done."

"Don't worry about it. If it works, I get to say 'I told you so'," Sam insisted.

"Can't wait to hear it," Dean insisted back. "But, uh, _seriously_, I can't thank you two enough for..." He let himself trail off with a halfhearted gesture behind himself. At the hulking presence of the earth's only known salvation.

"You can save the thanking for when we find a better alternative," Sam insisted, stepping forward and swallowing his brother up in a sasquatch sized hug. One it took Dean a good moment to wrap his head around. And which he returned as soon as his arms remembered how to move.  
Then, after a protracted several seconds, the younger brother sniffled as he pulled away to make room for Cas to do the same. Which the angel did with equal gusto.

"There is nothing that will stop us from liberating you from this Room," the shortest among them practically whispered from where his head was nestled firmly atop Dean's shoulder. "That is a promise you can hold us to."

"I know, Cas. And I love you for it. You _and_ that walking stilt I call a brother."

"Hey!"

Dean gave said ever so slightly misty-eyed brother a smirk as the angel let him go and took a reluctant half step back. "Okay, well, hasta la vista, babies."

"See you soon, Dean," Sam said in a way that made it sound like a promise. Right before moving to pull and hold the door open for his brother.

"Yes, have faith, Dean. We'll be together again soon." The resolute set to the angel's jaw made Dean's heart clench and the seasoned hunter found he had to force his face not to betray just how bad all this was suddenly starting to scare him. Had to clench his jaw as he gave the world and the people he'd known, protected, and counted on for so long a parting wave and took the few steps backwards and into his new home.

At least no one could see how bad it hit him when the door shut tight and an all encompassing gloom was all he could see.  
In fact, Dean was glad that only he could hear the building, mounting, **pounding** inside his head- the guttural **_railings_** against the only thing holding Michael at bay. Proof of the archangel's guttural reaction to their new surroundings. To the wardings Dean knew the stowaway in his head could feel, no matter how deep inside his mind the bastard was tucked away.

As the sound of multiple locks' deadbolts clunking into place bounced around the relatively small space, Dean stepped away from the door and focused on his breathing.  
As he heard the bar being lowered into place across the only way in or out of his new living space, a feeling he hadn't known in what felt like forever hit him square in the brain: Freedom.

He was finally, _finally_ free to relax.

"Okay, Mikey, you win," Dean said, planting his feet as he screwed his eyes shut and just... let go.

He stood there, knees loose and arms slack by his sides, in the middle of the ma'lak Room he'd helped build, as the maelstrom in his mind reached a fever pitch. He allowed himself the utter bliss of no longer pushing back with everything he had- every spare fiber of his tattered being, against that stupid stockroom door. Allowed himself to simply watch as that single, solitary, wholly insufficient barrier splintered and burst off its hinges, at long last releasing the biggest threat known to their planet.

Even as he felt the rush and surge of an angelic being coming out to shove him away from his own body's controls, Dean couldn't help but be thankful that he'd held out long enough. That Michael was never going to hurt another living soul again. That he wasn't at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean in a metal coffin he'd built out of pure desperation and the misguided thought that he had to do this alone.

Still, didn't mean Dean was _happy_ about being ripped from his body and shoved to a dark corner of his once private psyche, but knowing that this was as close to victory as the human race got against this particular brand of pure evil _did_ take the edge off.

As Dean felt the changing of the guard take official effect with a sickening sense of finality, he thought once more of the life- of the _people_ he was leaving behind. And of how very grateful he was for all their help.

If only Cas could be right in his faith that they'd be together again soon.  
If only their lives worked like that.

If only Dean'd never said 'yes' to Michael.

If only.


	7. Timeout

**Michael doesn't like the Room the Winchesters went through all the trouble to build for him. Still, etiquette begs he'll have to repay the favor when he gets out.**

The first time Michael tasted freedom again, the angel was understandably loath to relinquish it. Even tarnished as it was by the confirmation of what he'd been concerned might be waiting for him if he didn't break out of that simpleton's mental containment cell soon enough.

How those fumbling, bumbling _peons_ had managed the construction of something as esoteric and exacting as the fabled ma'lak box in the first place, let alone in such a short time, **baffled**. And Michael didn't baffle easily.

Still, as utterly powerless as that accursed metal prison left him, he refused to give up attempting escape. Though, considering the unreasonably thorough warding prevented unfettered access to his healing powers, that meant he wasn't throwing his vessel against the distinctly 'door' shaped outline on the wall but the one time.  
Turned out, bone bruises were a lot less fun when you had to deal with them for more than half a second.

What's more, inside that drab space, the angel was unable to tell the passing of days. Accurately, anyway. Not that Michael was all that concerned with keeping track of time under normal circumstances. It was the principal that irked him most. And the reality.  
After all, an _arch_angel being kept as a common prisoner? Unseeing, unhearing, and completely unaware of what may or may not be happening out in the mortal's world? Nor even around his little prison?

He wouldn't stand for it.

Unfortunately, for the present, he had no choice. Aside from exploring every square inch of that horrid, crudely constructed box, searching for even the smallest, most easily overlooked flaw in its interior. Going so far, when he came up with not a single unintentional fissure, as to inspect his vessel's memory of the planning and fabrication processes. Pushing harder into that soft excuse for a memory bank when his examinations once again failed to bear fruit.

Michael fumed and thrashed as both his frustration and indeed humiliation at the situation grew in equal measures with the steady slide of every uneventful, utterly dull hour. Confounded when even the normally diverting pastime of forcing his vessel's original occupant deeper into the dark recesses of his own elaborate version of a mental prison did little to alleviate the monotonous flavor of his current, underwhelming existence. Much of the fun of the game evaporated now that the elder Winchester did nothing to resist the archangel's assertion of his rightful and deserved absolute dominance.

Pathetic really.

No, the only even _vaguely_ interesting thing that actually happened in there was the occasional lifting of a tiny sliding plate along the bottom of the lone door. Followed by a serving of the most foul substances it had ever been his misfortune to behold being pushed through it. Then the slat was shut and he was stuck with a tray of disgusting slop and a thin dish of water staring a him from across the room.  
Considering the pea sized intellects of everyone his vessel came into contact with, he wouldn't be at all surprised if they couldn't stick to a schedule for such a thing. So that wasn't a reliable way to count the passing of days either.

Whatever. What were 'days' anyway when you had the best lifespan of anything in all creation next to God Himself? Michael would still be there when those lumbering oafs stroked out and their stupid tattoo covered walls crumbled to rust, mark his... thoughts.  
He'd simply much rather hear them gurgle on their own blood as he popped their sorry little throats with his bare hands. Or maybe from across the room, considering those absolute zeros weren't fit to touch any being _half_ as angelic as himself.

The archangel decided to spend his next bout of peak once again trying to destroy the sigil warding against his healing. But, considering his ability to smite was suppressed to practically nothing, so far all he'd managed was to bloody the nails of his vessel's fragile fingers. Several times. Also cracked a couple of those unreasonably brittle hand bones while he was at it. All of which was starting to wear at his patience. Especially so having to wait multiple minutes for those ugly, ruined things to revert to their normal, blunted state. And not being able to make a fist with that hand until the toothpick like metacarpal bones knitted back together.

He couldn't fathom how it was humans stood being alive. Let alone why they could **possibly** want to stay that way.

Around the time he admitted to himself that it was beyond his currently accessible power to chip the metal Enochian healing seal from the metal wall it had been melted to, the annoying slot opened and in slid yet another tray of thoughtless offerings.

Michael wasn't completely sure what it was those half brains on the outside expected him, an archangel, to _do_ with such drivel. After all, the lowliest of angels never degraded themselves to relying on... 'food' for energy nor sustenance. Even their inferior form of grace was all that was necessary to keep them going for eons.

...All the same, Michael had begun —and this was stretching the use of the word— 'amusing' himself by disassembling and or destroying the different piles of filth that came through from the outside.  
On occasions when his boredom reached its peak, he even went so far as to sniff a few of the less offensive 'dishes'. Regretting it every time, but at least it was something to _do_. Other than play tic-tac-toe with his own blood. When he inadvertently made his vessel bleed.  
Mostly inadvertently, anyway.

Mostly.

Something about the squat dish of water called to him though, and so around day... he'd guess 5, Michael had picked it up and given it a thorough inspection. Instead of kicking it over just to spite the buffoons who were presumptuous enough to leave it there in the first place.

It said 'Fido' on one side, 'made in China' on the bottom, and 'not meant for microwave use' on the reverse.  
Inside, it just had water. Nothing else. Or, without the help of his higher angelic divining functions, nothing else. Didn't mean it wasn't laced with something. Something harmful to him but not lethal to his vessel?  
Seemed far fetched, considering there were far crueler ways those troglodytes could be handling things than simply confining him to this wretched Room. Him having been perfectly clear about wanting to render their world to cinders with them right at the center of his righteous cataclysm.

No, it was obvious that those softheaded oafs were holding out hopes for getting their 'loved one' back alive. _So_ obvious, in fact, that Michael was confident in them not having the stomachs for making his life —nor, by extension, his vessel's— any worse than they already were.  
Therefore, the archangel with nothing better to do squared his shoulders and took an experimental sip. The weird container threatening to spill when he tipped it enough to bring the water over to one side.

As far as he could tell after about a half minute of holding the water in his mouth, it wasn't full of cyanide or strychnine, nor did it seem to be loaded with paralytics or soporifics. So he swallowed it. Just to see what would happen. And what did happen almost surprised him.

Nothing. Absolutely- Well, not _absolutely_ nothing. In fact, as subtle as it was, his vessel reacted to the influx of... hm, the hydrogen-oxygen hybrid fluid in a positive way. Soaking it up as if it were a plant happy to receive rain after a particularly long dry spell.

Deciding that he didn't like that thought, Michael disregarded it and took another experimental sip from the 'Fido, made in China, not microwave safe' cup. Thing.  
Before he knew it, the whole serving was inside him and it almost felt like his vessel was asking for more. Like it had somehow grown a dependency to the liquid.

Ah. It was a human thing. In that case, he should feel free to ignore it as the triviality that it was. An archangel such as himself needn't concern himself with such matters.

…Except, perhaps, when there was next to nothing else with which to occupy his unending captive hours. Seeing as the only other things to do around there were count the seconds and play mental games of chess against himself. And those generally ended in a draw.  
That, or of course, his personal favorite, to rail in rage against the scathing, degrading, injustice of him, the most powerful archangel across _any_ reality, being confined to **any** manmade prison.

The walls would bend to his will eventually. As every organic and material thing in his life had. This was just taking longer.  
Much longer.

What felt like a couple of weeks, in fact, and still there was no sign of wear nor tear on any single inch of _anything_ in there. Aside from his vessel, of course. But those marks disappeared in moments. Frustrating, uncomfortably _long_ moments, but disappear they did.  
Though, if Michael could trust his judgment in the matter, he would swear that the countless scrapes, bruises, and contusions were beginning, somehow, to wear at him. As preposterous as the notion was.

Another week passed. Probably. And then, perhaps, another, and still those accursed walls showed not a single dent- not **one** single singe nor scratch to prove his inexpressible _hatred_ of that keeping him against his will. Of **those** keeping him captive and impotent.  
Those Winchesters would _**burn**_ for what they'd forced upon him. It was only a matter of time.

Time. A natural force which had never before taken up so much of his consideration. One which he was forcibly becoming far more intimately acquainted with than he had ever hoped to.

In fact, throughout the passing of those last two weeks in that six sided prison, Michael became aware of another effect of time's passing. For, slowly as it was that the feeling crept up on him, eventually, upon him the feeling did creep.  
It was quite similar to the way injury felt, only without any blow or obvious damage having caused it. A sort of growing weight hanging from his vessel's every cell which, by the end of that first month of incarceration, threatened to pull him to his knees at every turn.  
Maybe this was that 'tired' he'd heard being whined about so often by those wretched humans he'd nearly managed to snuff out back in his reality. Or maybe he was imagining things and just plain no longer _wanted_ to beat at the walls as long as he had a month ago.

Whatever, Michael thought as he stared listlessly into that ever present gloom, he'd hit that blasted wall **twice** as hard next time.  
Just as soon as he could get his stupid vessel back up off the floor.  
And convince that loathsome Room to stop spinning.


	8. The Outside

**Sam and Cas are understandably worried about Dean. They're also dealing with the sense of powerlessness that goes hand in hand with knowing a loved one is beyond their ability to help.**  
**Still, they're doing what they can and they're holding out hope that they'll make a break in the case. Eventually.**  
**Though, honestly, it's feeling like they might be better off straight up praying for a miracle.**

Locking his brother away had been one of the hardest things Sam had ever had to do.

Honestly, at the last moment, when Sam had suddenly _realized_ whose face he was shutting that door in, he'd been ready to call the whole thing off. After all, Sam knew from personal experience what being trapped in a box with an angry archangel was like. Plus, as good as Dean had always been at hiding it when he was scared, he hadn't been able to hide it this time.

So Sam had been a little more than grateful when Cas had stepped in and taken over for the locking part, because he wasn't sure his hands would've been able to work the keys after what they'd already had to do.  
Then, with an understanding look, the angel had told him to go and rest and that he'd keep an eye on things long enough to be sure they hadn't made any terrible miscalculations with the build.

Sam wasn't proud of it, but he'd jumped at the offer and gotten the hell away from that suddenly trembling, _screeching_,**rumbling** ma'lak box. Running with tail between his legs not to his own bed, but to one of the countless libraries they'd already given a perfunctory, 'get rid of Michael' comb through. Hoping to find something- _anything_ to distract himself from the fact that he might never see his brother again.

Those next couple of weeks, he'd barely come up for air. Practically drowned himself in dusty tomes, archaic journals, and ancient anthologies in an attempt to find even a shred of proof that that Room wasn't the only thing he could do for Dean. That triple locking and barring the guy somewhere he'd never see the sun again wasn't the best he could do for his brother. For someone who'd helped save the world more times than anybody outside their circle would ever know.

If it had been up to him, he wouldn't have gone back to the build chamber until he'd found a solution. But Cas visited every chance he got. Had been the one who actually thought about whether the archangel in Dean's clothing might need food or water or _anything_ at all, for that matter. While all Sam had been able to think about was how it was **his box** Dean was spending every passing moment trapped inside.

It wasn't until day fourteen that Sam felt himself shaken from his single-minded, desperate search.

Hearing footsteps approach from the direction of the build chamber, Sam'd looked up from the eight hundred page reference book he'd had his nose buried in since dawn in time to see the unflappable angel he'd known for the better part of a decade hurrying past. A plate full of utterly **mashed** food balanced in his hands. And the sparkle of fresh tears glinting from his visible cheek.

That was the moment it had finally clicked for Sam that he wasn't the only one there struggling with what they'd **both** had to do to- the kind of prison they'd had to commit Dean to in order to keep him from a far, far worse fate.

So, with a vow to do better by his fellow griever, he'd dropped a place holder on the open book and jogged out the study door and down the hall. Hoping whatever had the angel upset wasn't _too_ serious that he couldn't help.

Turned out, Cas had been the one keeping the bunker up and running. The one who'd stayed on top of coordinating hunts and managing supplies while Sam had wallowed in self-pity and fear. And every book that even _mentioned_ the word 'angel'.

After that revelation, the next couple of weeks had gone by far more smoothly, with Cas still running point on... everything, but with the big exception that Sam was making the effort to share time between what he normally did around there, and his absolutely compulsive need to delve deeper and deeper into their stores of arcane and obscure lore.

Cas had gotten them through that first month.  
Even though he'd been just as affected by Dean's absence as Sam had, he'd pushed through and kept everyone on track the best he could and Sam couldn't hope to thank him enough for it.

That's why it caught him so hard by surprise when suddenly, right around the end of those first four weeks, Cas had started having second thoughts.

"Are you sure about this being the right thing, Sam? It's Dean's body trapped in there," Cas reminded, voice absolutely prickling with unease and apprehension.

"Dean's sure about it and the world hasn't fried yet," Sam said with a hapless shrug. "_I_ think this is our only option right now, so, yeah, I'm sure."

"It's been a month, Sam. It's been an entire month and Michael hasn't eaten a thing. Not only that, but the only communication he's _attempted_ with the outside world is banging on the walls and screaming," Cas said, pursing his lips and motioning toward the prison when it rumbled worryingly. "Case in point."

"If that was what Dean was dealing with, I can kind of understand why he was so Gung-ho about stopping it," Sam admitted with a heavy slump of his shoulders.

"It was worse."

"What?"

"Dean told me, in a private moment, that Michael was, as he put it, 'tireless'," Cas relayed with a sad shake of his head. "But now, perhaps, with his powers smothered as they are, he is feeling the wear of time and is finally... tiring."

"Here's hoping," Sam said with a similarly sad shake of his own head.  
Then, after the last of the Room's relatively minor vibrations died off, something Cas had said clicked and Sam turned to the angel with a snap. "Maybe he doesn't _like_ the food! We've been sliding things through the slot that Dean likes, or- or that you or I like, but we hadn't considered what Michael might actually consider eating."

His reasoning must have been sound, because Cas's face brightened. "Yes, that's true, Michael's personality is _very_ different from Dean's. It would stand to reason that he would also have very different tastes in food."

"We don't even know _whether_ he's eaten before. He didn't exactly try to blend in after he got here from Apocalypse World," Sam pointed out, flummoxed that he hadn't thought of it earlier.

"Yes, that too is something to consider," Cas agreed, face pensive.

"Start simple?" Sam suggested.

"Excellent," Cas said, a new sense of determination coloring his features. "I'll begin preparations now," he said as he turned for the kitchen, trench coat fluttering with the energy of his movement.

"Mind if I tag along?" Sam asked as he half-jogged to catch up.

"Not at all. When it comes to matters of the hearth, I'm afraid I can use all the help I can get," Cas admitted, giving his tag along an appreciative glance.

"Don't worry, not a lot of ways we could mess this one up," Sam reassured as the two of them hit their stride. Attitudes hopeful as they approached their destination.

Three hours later though found the two back exactly where they'd started, emotionally as well as situationally. With not an ounce of buoyancy between them and a cold, untouched, obviously rejected dish to show for their efforts.

"Well, that was a bust," Sam admitted with a sigh.

"We cannot allow this to continue. I shall attempt to reason with him," Cas volunteered, before walking right up to the sigil encrusted door and giving it an incongruous, polite knock.

"Michael, Sam and I fear that you require nourishment, which we are well aware you have been rejecting these past weeks." The angel gave it a few good seconds, but continued when there was no rebuttal.  
"You have to eat, Michael, I would not lie to you in this. Dean, your vessel, is my dearest friend and you, though from a different dimension, are my heavenly kin. I wish no harm to befall either of you," Cas implored, voice growing more concerned as the moments he took to speak passed uninterrupted by enraged thrashings and screeches. Nor by anything else, for that matter.

Sam watched on as Cas lowered himself onto both knees, bent down so that his eyes were level with the open slot at the bottom of the door, and proceeded to take a cautious peer through it.

"Sam," came the angel's voice, urgency setting the brother's hair on end, "something may be seriously wrong." Cas sat up enough to make eye contact with the hunter, then dropped back down to peek through the slot once more. Almost sticking his face inside to see as clearly as possible. "I think Michael is... unconscious."

"But, how would that-"

"My guess: unintentional deprivation," Cas asserted, the firm nod at the end complimenting the self assured tone. "For angels, as I've mentioned some years ago, eating is not at all the same experience as it is for humans. For an _arch_angel such as Michael..."

"The _thought_ of eating probably makes him want to gag?" Sam offered, biting his lip when Cas nodded once more.

"At this point, I think it more likely than not that he doesn't know how to interpret the feeling of hunger," Cas informed, tone bleak.

"Well," Sam started, expression somewhere between wry and resigned, "guess I'll have to go in there and teach him."

"Sam-"

"Not much else we _can_ do," Sam pointed out, cutting Cas off with a regretful sort of determination.

Thankfully, it took Cas only scant moments to concede the point and before Sam knew it, the angel had moved to unlock the locks they'd made _multiple_ promises to **never** unlock.

"Michael may possess some modicum of his angelic strength; he should still be... formidable," Cas warned as he looked up from his task. Expression grim.

"Yeah, I know. Thanks for the reminder, but I'm prepared," Sam said as he pulled out and held up their set of archangel tried, tested, and proven handcuffs. "If he's putting on an act, or even if he isn't and just gets defensive while I'm in there, he'll be wearing these, so I think I'll be okay."

"Alright then, but if he makes any sudden moves before those go on," Cas said with a pointed look toward the cuffs, "you call for me. I will assist, in any way I can."

"Thanks, Cas. Wish me luck," Sam said as he watched the angel undo and lift the last of the only things keeping Michael from his goal of eradicating all life on their planet.

"Good luck, Sam. Though, I sincerely hope you don't need it."

"Same here," Sam whispered to himself.  
Then, with a grateful nod to Cas as the angel gave the foreboding thing a tug, Sam ducked through the barely opened door. The one Cas was already _leaning_ his body against in preparation for shutting the moment Sam was past. Which the angel did with force to spare.

Reeling just a hair as the clang of the freshly reshut door reverberated through his skull, it took Sam a second to realize just how dark it was in there.  
Though, considering the family business was all about dark, obscure places, it was only a couple blinks before the details of the utterly depressing space came into focus. And with them, so did the reason for his visit.

**Phew! The editing on this one took forever! Hope it turned out enjoyably readable and that everyone's looking forward to the next one! :D**


	9. Baby Steps

**Michael is not nearly as self-sufficient as he'd like to think he is.**

"Michael?"

...No response. So Sam plucked up his courage and picked his way across the darkened floor to the side of the little 'mattress' he'd completely forgotten they'd put in there during the build.  
Well, that _Cas_ had been thoughtful enough to put in there, anyway.

"Michael?" He tried again, not all that interested in waking the archangel prematurely but feeling obliged to try and assess his mental faculties anyway.

...Still nothing.

Confident at least that he wasn't about to get a good old fashioned sucker punch from the _unconscious_ lump on the one padded piece of floor, Sam knelt down and snapped the cuffs on the unresponsive archangel. Knowing that that was what Dean would want.

Satisfied with the sturdy click each half made as it was secured, Sam moved his hand to his brother's- to _Michael's_ wrist, counting the beats of his pulse until he was at least sure that his heart was fine. Next he'd check-

And the bred and born hunter had to hide a flinch when he glanced up and noticed a pair of absolutely piercing eyes, open and staring right at him.

"So you simpletons have finally come to your senses."

"What?" Sam asked, almost sure he hadn't heard that right.

"You're taking this opportunity to kill me. Good for you. The universe will sing its praise for generations," the archangel said, an expression similar to 'impressed' coloring his tired, borrowed face.

"What? No, these are just a precaution; I'm here to make sure you _stay_ alive. You're possessing my **brother**," Sam reminded, almost surprised when the expression soured to an overtly, deeply 'unimpressed'.

"For a moment, I'd thought maybe one of you had grown half a brain."

"You _want_ us to kill you?" Sam asked, curiosity peaked by the reasoning more than his annoyance was stirred by the insult.

"I'd like to see you try," Michael replied, tone just a shade off from challenging. Which Sam had no idea what to do with. So he elected to ignore it.

"What I'm actually here about, is the fact that you've been in here for a month and haven't eaten."

"Let me guess, you're here to convince me to start? Pass," said the angelic body snatcher as he repositioned himself to a half sprawl, half sit. Back against the closest wall. Tone as supercilious as ever, even though the simple act of sitting up was obviously enough to tire him out.

"Well if eating is **so** far beneath you, then let Dean out and he'll eat _for_ you," Sam tried. Aware how much of a long shot it was.

"That monkey? I don't think so," refused the archangel who Sam figured really couldn't afford to be that uppity anymore. Considering the condition he'd gotten himself into.

"Say what you want, but I've never seen 'that monkey' collapse out of hunger before," Sam informed, letting a little smug satisfaction show on his face.

"The way he eats? I should _hope_ not," Michael said, looking like he might want to smile about the jab.

"Food wasn't always in abundant supply while we were growing up. I was young, so Dean never let _me_ skip a meal, but... I think he remembers what going hungry feels like," Sam said, compelled to defend his brother but then kicking himself for his indiscretion almost before he'd finished. Doubly so when Michael's eyes sharpened in interest.

"Fascinating. So this meat suit _has_ kept some memories private from me. I suppose your brother is good at something after all." The admission of adequateness left Sam off-put, to say the least.

"If there's one thing he's good at, it's keeping secrets," Sam admitted, kicking himself for it again, but also not feeling as if he needed to stop. Because, for once, strangely enough, it didn't seem as if Michael was groping around for an open wound to pour salt in.  
So, against his better judgment, Sam went on. "He hid it well. I never would have figured it out if it weren't for one of my schools teaching a class on the Great Depression. A time of economic strife that took place nearly a hundred years ago," he explained when Michael seemed unfamiliar with the term.  
Which was interesting, since it indicated that Apocalypse World hadn't suffered from the same. Which, in turn, made Sam wonder what else between their realities' histories were different.  
"We heard firsthand accounts of families who had so little means that the adults or older children would go hungry so the younger family members could eat."

Michael's face betrayed scant little of what he was thinking, but his eyes, even in the low light, were riveted. And considering he hadn't interrupted with a cackle or disgusted scoff, Sam was pretty sure the angel was genuinely... interested.

"They would subject themselves to this?" The angel asked with a wave at his own practically supine position. "_Willingly_?"

"So says the history books," Sam said with a nod-shrug combo.

"...Your brother did this?" The question coming out quiet enough that Sam wasn't sure Michael had meant to voice it.

"Well, like I said, I never saw _him_ passed out from hunger. You're ruining his perfect record."

To that, Michael coughed. But Sam was eighty percent sure it was solely to cover up a surprised laugh.

"So, food?" Sam suggested, pretty sure he had the archangel on the ropes.

"Oh alright, if it'll get this flaccid lump of a vessel back on its feet, why the hell not?"

"Well then, Bon appétit," said Sam, victorious smile well suppressed as he retrieved and presented the food Cas and he had earlier decided upon. And left on the floor inside the door.

"What. Is. _That_?"

At the intense reaction, Sam had to double take to make sure nothing atrocious had happened to the food over the past few hours. He sighed and cocked an eyebrow when everything was shipshape.  
"Oatmeal? It's a porridge made from dried, rolled oat grains, boiled until soft, then generally mixed with milk and some sort of sweetener."

"It looks like vomit," Michael said with a _very_ wrinkled nose.

"Uh, it's one of the blander, easier to digest foods known to man," Sam offered. Trying not to let the ridiculous rejection get him down. And not to outright laugh at the archangel who was, unbeknownst to him, acting like a picky child.

"Why is it full of chunks then? Has it turned?"

"No, dude, we just made this," the hunter half fibbed as he directed an incredulous look at the incapacitated world destroyer wearing his brother's face. "Those 'chunks' are bits of apple. Thought you could use some enzymes."

To that, Michael made a noise of disgust. "You humans are so needy."

"That's one way to put it," Sam indulged, holding out the bowl and then holding in a chuckle when their resident archangel rolled his eyes before holding out his hands.  
Then, the man with the patience of a saint watched in great amusement as the bedridden angel sneered down into his bowl and, with the speed of dripping tar, brought it to his lips. Where he then took the smallest, daintiest _sip_ Sam had ever seen that face take.

It was almost disturbing.

"There's cinnamon in this," Michael pointed out. Voice rather accusatory.

"Didn't want it to be _too_ bland," Sam admitted with a shrug. To which, Michael 'hm'ed and took another _sip_.

"The sweetener is honey. From bees fatted on clover. The milk is free of fat and from cows fatted on cornmeal and alfalfa."

The observations were stated as fact, and seeing as they were probably correct, Sam saw no reason to speak. Not wanting to break up the angel's progress. Nor interrupt the way his disgust seemed to be abating with every sip.  
Still, Sam found himself unable to smother a flinch when that diminishing disgust turned suddenly to a smile. One verging on sadistic.

"The cows miss their babies."

"Okay, well, it looks like you have everything under control," Sam said as he hurried to a stand. "Just leave it by the slot when you're done, like usual," he finished, trying to fight down that ferocious, tightening sense of unease he was so used to feeling when in **any** archangel's presence. And which he strangely _hadn't_ felt until just then.

"Hold," the practically helpless archangel more demanded than asked. Though, Sam had to admit, it was a close thing. Which was a definite improvement over... ever. So he stayed where he stood and made a face, indicating he was listening.  
"Am I to wear these cuffs indefinitely? Spend my time in bondage as well as imprisoned?" The practically powerless Michael asked, rattling the cuffs' chain and almost spilling oatmeal all over Dean's shirt as he did.

Sam gave it a good moment, studying the angel who made his brother's usually so familiar face... almost unrecognizable, before moving. Letting him digging the key from his pocket be answer enough.  
Then he half squatted, half kneeled by the angel and gave him his best warning look. "Don't make me make you regret this."

The answering snort was eerily similar to a noise Dean often made. "As if you had the stomach for it."

At the flippant brush off, Sam moved to put the key back in his pocket, but was compelled to stop by an unexpected, almost worried-

"Wait."

"?" Sam prompted, making sure his eyebrows didn't look taunting

"Just take the damn things off," the depowered archangel demanded. The half griping, half concerned tone making it sound almost like a request.  
Almost.

Which it turned out was good enough for Sam, who took pity on the guy wearing his brother's face and unshackled him.

Then, without another word, Michael went back to nursing what may well have been his first ever meal, and Sam took the silence as his invitation to show himself out. So he did. Cas once again shutting the door **immediately** behind him.


	10. Timeshare

**Food. Eating. ****_Not_**** immediately killing the human who had dared touch him. It was all so new to Michael.**  
**He needed some time to think about... all of it.**

So. It had come to _this_, had it? An all powerful archangel reduced to relying on _**food**_, of all things.

Pathetic.

Yes, somehow, in his weakened and deprived mental state, Michael had allowed himself to be convinced to do something that he had thought he would never stoop to: He had **eaten**. Oatmeal. Oatmeal prepared by two of his most persistent, most hated enemies, no less.

If he had known that _this_ was what awaited him in this new, twin dimension, he would have thought twice about crossing over. After all, back on _his_ earth he'd never known defeat, nor injury, nor had he ever tired from the pursuit of his ultimate goal: The complete and utter eradication of the primate infestation known as 'humankind'.  
A blight if ever he'd seen one.

Whatever, thought the archangel as he decided with a sneer that he was _more_ than finished with his 'meal'. Punctuating the thought by sliding that bowl of filmy, slime like leftovers away from himself and in the general direction of the food slot. Which was all the effort he was willing to put into complying with the younger Winchester's soft worded demands to 'leave it by the door'. Knowing that even that was showing the would-be warden _far_ more consideration than deserved.

...So why had Michael bothered?

Perhaps because his captors had ignored and in fact _spurned_ an easy opportunity to be rid of him once and for all. Compounded by the fact that since their foolhardy misjudgment to _not_ end him, his practically useless vessel no longer felt quite so close to death.  
Or, the more likely scenario, he simply didn't appreciate the thought of his quarters resembling a sty.

Preposterous, Michael thought with an undignified snort. What did he care what his _prison_ looked like?  
No, it was simply the mental deprivation messing with his hobbled divine perceptions. After all, having not but darkness to keep him company day in and day out? Not to mention the oppressive, bleak atmosphere and the fact that the walls themselves were working against him, with their hideous scars marking out the most degrading words of his heavenly people?  
'Twould surely be enough to drive _any_ creation of God to madness.

Yes. That was it. He was going mad. Otherwise he'd have **never** allowed so much as an unholy speck of organic matter to pass his lips. Sacrosanct as they were.  
He would simply have destroyed the bowl the behemoth had been fool enough to leave with him. And he _definitely_ wouldn't have been laying there listless, on a mattress he hated on principle, mildly contemplating his own decent into utter delirium. He'd be **doing** something about it.

Well, Michael decided with a sigh he _felt_ down to the subatomic level, whatever his ultimate fate, there was one thing he knew to be solidly, unshakably true:

He wasn't 'eating' ever again.

Fate though, the archangel soon came to realize, had other plans. For that 'night', during that longest stretch of time wherein his solitude was never broken, Michael felt the return of that same 'tired' feeling that had abated some after the younger Winchester's visit. Pervasive as ever, threatening to pull him under as it weighed on his every muscle and positively _writhed_ in his vessel's middle.

That last phenomenon though, this time, he knew had a name all its own:  
Hunger.

Now with an unsavory ultimatum staring him down; to debase himself and eat, or to once again fall to that degrading state known as unconsciousness, Michael realized that Samuel had been right. Eating _was_, indeed, beneath him.

And so, being clearly not long for the world of the sane regardless, Michael, after minimal forethought and absolutely **no** due process, decided the unthinkable.  
He was going to let Dean Winchester out.

Hence, with his vessel arranged in a tidy, horizontal position, the archangel reached into the far recesses of his utterly palatial mind and pulled the original owner out of the deep, dark prison he'd pushed him into. Then, without pomp nor circumstance, he shoved the unsuspecting oaf instead stumbling towards the light, where Michael thrusted over the reigns and stood back. Interested to see what would happen.

Turned out? Whole lot of nothing. _After_ the admittedly rather impressive full body gasp, of course.  
The discombobulated buffoon simply gave an owlish look around long enough to get his bearings, stopped **panicking** as he realized where they _still_ were, then collapsed right back down onto the mattress he'd half sprung off of.

The idiot didn't even _attempt_ the most logical course of action available to him: to shove Michael back inside his cozy little bar stock room and this time, give it a proper lock.  
Which actually turned out the smarter play. Considering it wouldn't have worked.  
But what the oversized lummox chose to do instead was... unexpected. To say the least.

The ill fated hunter who'd managed to keep _Michael_ —the indomitable archangel who'd near single-handedly brought about Apocalypse on his own world— locked away at the center of his puny human mind for so long, merely made himself comfortable... and proceeded to pass out. And snore. For the entire night.  
Boring really.

Scratch that: _really_ boring, Michael thought with a restless sort of annoyance. The useless log hadn't even woken when, hours into the 'morning', the food slat was lifted and the soiled oatmeal bowl was groped around for and removed. Nor when, moments later, in was slid the Fido water Michael had grown accustomed to drinking.

But, being more interested in seeing what the simpleton he'd deigned to 'share' a body with would, hopefully, _eventually_ do than he was tempted by the dish by the door, Michael sat back and waited. Surprisingly content to see how things would unfold.

...In due time.

**Sorry about that long wait between chapters! I'm happy to inform though that there's a silver lining around that particular dark cloud, as part of the 'why' behind the unexpected hiatus is that I was working on more than one chapter simultaneously. Which just so happens to mean that the next chapter is almost complete! And considerably longer than this one! And, with any luck, will be up within the next few days!**  
**Hope this one was an enjoyable addition! Thanks for reading!**


	11. Visitation Rights

**Sam gets to speak to his brother for the first time in over a month. Cas too is afforded this opportunity. Only, Dean isn't his brother.**

Having finally gotten some concrete proof that Dean was doing... okay, and having seen Michael actually eat something for once in his life, Sam didn't feel the same sense of dread he usually felt while putting together breakfast. Probably because he _knew_, for the first time since he'd started helping with the whole 'food for their non-eating prisoner' thing, that it wasn't going to waste.

So, feeling somehow more optimistic than he had in... a **long** time, Sam took the corner into their archangel containment chamber, pausing momentarily as the sight of the Room standing there, grey and scarred and unyielding hit him hard as it had every time he'd seen it in just as long.

"Oatmeal again," Sam called as he reached down and slipped the shallow bowl through the door slot, right alongside the water dish Cas had delivered earlier. "Apricot today," he added, so the new fruit wouldn't be too much of a surprise.

"What am I, ninety?" Came the petulant response, surprising Sam with how very much it reminded him of-

"Dean? Dean, is that you?!" Sam asked, aware his voice was far from cool, calm, or collected, but knowing in that moment that he couldn't bring himself to care. He did though remember to send off a quick prayer to Cas, letting him know what was happening. In case his angelic assistance was somehow required.

"Yeah, Sammy, it's me," came the unmistakable, tired voice of none other than his older brother.

"What- what happened? Where's Michael?" Sam asked, checking around to be sure that- Nah, there wasn't any way the archangel had gotten out. Especially without the help of his vessel. Who was still right there, inside the locked and warded and perfectly intact Room.

"He's here. Don't know why, but he let me out. Probably got tired of how crappy a job he was doing of keeping us alive. I honestly don't think that chucklehead slept a wink while he was in here," Dean informed around a yawn.

"How're you feeling?" Sam asked as he indulged himself and peeked in through the food slot, knowing he was making a fool of himself as he practically laid on the floor to do so.

"_Tired_," Dean said in a very 'duh' sort of way. "And it feels like Mikey broke one of my hands... at some point."

"He was doing a lot of banging around in there, first couple weeks," Sam said with a sympathetic grimace.

"...How long's it been?" Sam heard more than saw the gloomy shadow of his brother ask from where it was lounging on the mattress.

"Just about a month." The answer coming from between tight lips and teeth that wanted to clench in indignation. Because Dean didn't deserve this- _any_ of this, but it was still the best thing they had going for them on the whole 'don't let the homicidal archangel destroy the world' front, so it was the best they could give him.

"..."

"Dean? You still there?"

"Yeah, just, it hasn't been as bad as I thought it would. Honestly didn't feel like that long."

The weariness in the voluntarily incarcerated hunter's voice had Sam once again wishing this whole ridiculous setup weren't necessary.  
At least Michael wasn't taking it out on his host. Probably too busy plotting how to escape after the reality had **finally** set in that physically busting out just wasn't happening. Ever.

"Cas around?" Dean asked, sounding hopeful.

"I'm here, Dean," came a voice that made Sam jump. Just a bit. Seeing as it came from _right_ next to him.

"When-"

"Just now," Cas assured with a motion toward the barred door. Which Sam stood to unlock, now that both of them were there.  
"How are you, Dean? Has Michael relinquished his control for good?" The angel asked as he kneeled where Sam had been but a moment ago.

"I'm good, Cas, but I don't think he's gone for long. He just couldn't figure out why his 'vessel' was about two seconds from keeling over. _Constantly._"

"But, I thought he began eating. After that talk Sam had with him?" Cas informed with a pointed glance at said talk haver.

"Yeah, well, the feather face _still_ wasn't ready for human life with the training wheels off: Couldn't figure out how **sleeping** works," came the response Sam had hoped wasn't.

"He hasn't _slept_?" Cas asked, expression hardening. "It's worse than we feared, Michael truly knows nothing of humans," he said as he turned his face to Sam. Who was finished with the last lock and ready to lift the bar and grant himself access.

The concern etched deep into his friend's face though gave Sam a thought, so he removed his hand from the bar and stooped to better throw his voice inside the Room. "How's the hand, Dean?"

"Hand?" Cas asked. Puzzled.

"...Little stiff."

"Stiff? Dean, what're you talking about?" Demanded the angel still down by the food slot.

"Michael, probably back when he was really wailing on the walls, managed to break one of his- one of _Dean's_ hands," Sam explained. Saving Dean the effort.

"And it's been broken since?" Cas asked, looking more and more akin to an **avenging** angel by the second.

"Naw," came the one word reassurance from inside.

"Sounds like he healed it but did a crappy job," Sam translated when Cas looked to him for assistance.

"Perhaps I can be of some help? Dean rarely complains of injury unless it is... serious," the angel said with a meaningful raise of his brow.

"You're tellin' me," Sam agreed, before stooping enough to once again throw his voice through the open slot. "Alright, Cas is coming in to have a look at that. Don't worry, he has the cuffs," Sam tacked on as he remembered to shove the shackles and their key in the angel's hands.

Cas nodded his thanks to Sam as the angelic hunter straightened and stood. Then the tall man lifted the bar out of its place and pulled the door open just far enough for the shorter to slip through.

XxxxxxxxxXxxxxxxxXxxxxxxXxxxxxxxXx

As he came to a stop on the other side of that homemade ma'lak door, Cas felt a pressure envelope him. One which hit him immediately and in such an all encompassing way that for a moment, he was completely disoriented.  
Then the door shut behind him and the angel found himself having to rely almost _entirely_ on his vessel's faculties to perceive the Room around him.

It was dark. With only the use of his human eyes, unenhanced by divine grace, Cas had to blink and strain to adjust to the gloom. Soon though, he saw his friend, reclining against the rear wall in a half seated position on his bed.

"How's it hangin', Cas?"

"How is what- oh. Never mind," the angel muttered as he looked over the murky form of his ever irreverent friend. Who held out his hands in a strange gesture which left Cas puzzled.

"The cuffs?" Dean prompted after a protracted moment.

"Oh, yes, here they are," Cas said, nearly fumbling them as he crossed the small space and bent to shackle a man who deserved no such thing.

"There we go; nice and cozy," said the hunter as he tested the chain, sounding far more cheery than the angel thought he had sound reason to.

"Well, as doubtful as that might be, it's good to see you too, Dean," Cas greeted. "As to how it is 'hanging', it saddens me to see you imprisoned like this," the angel said as he straightened. His situationally all too human eyes widening when they picked out the deep circles under his friend's.

"How's this ma'lak box treatin' _you_?" Dean asked. No doubt to distract from what Cas had most recently said.

Castiel blinked away his surprise and then answered as he walked back over to the door. "This Room was designed to contain an _arch_angel. Specifically Michael. In addition," he said as he bent to grab the squatter dish from the floor, "I am only visiting."

"So you're good, then?" Dean asked, voice ever so slightly concerned.

"I am indeed 'good'," the guest in someone else's prison assured as he made his way back over to said someone.  
"I thought you might appreciate some water," Cas said as he sat by the mattress and offered said water.

"_Really_?" Dean asked, motioning at the 'Fido' on the side of the bowl.

"It was Sam's idea," Cas defended. Perhaps a hair quickly. "Besides, it was the only water container we could fit through the slot without spilling."

"Oh, I'm _sure_ it was," Dean said, taking a sip which turned into a half the bowl chug. Then, after a quick gulp of air, the hunter finished the bowl and handed it back with an appreciative nod. "Mikey doesn't drink enough."

"That may be our fault," Cas said as he set the bowl by his knee. "We were not aware of just how powerful an effect the wardings would have on Michael. We will supply more water from now on. Perhaps maintain a constant supply of fresh water... somehow," Castiel suggested, mind going thoughtful for a moment. A scoff from his tired friend bringing him out of it.

"You mean like for Fido over here?" Dean asked in a way that mocked at indignance, motioning towards the bowl in question.

"I suppose so," Cas admitted with an apologetic grimace. "Many people do treat their pets more humanely than they do other humans."

"Ain't that the truth?" Dean said, sounding tired for a new reason.

"Sam said that your hand was damaged in one of Michael's earlier attempts at escape?" Cas asked, in an attempt to change the subject from the dower turn it had taken.

"Must'a been how it happened, 'cause I know _I_ didn't do it," Dean reasoned with a well placed shrug. Placing the hand in question in Cas's when prompted.

"You don't remember?" Cas asked, scrutinizing his friend's hand as he did. Finding that it took far more concentration than than he'd hoped, though far less than he'd expected, to perceive the bones within.

"What can I say? Archangel likes his privacy."

"You've no idea why Michael has allowed you this window of freedom?" Cas queried, hunching lower over the injured hand in an attempt to clear up the image he was getting.

"He scooted over: I'm behind the wheel. That's all I know," Dean explained, sounding more entertained than worried.

"Michael is letting you 'drive' for a while?" Cas asked, confusion forefront in his tone, even as he finally made out the damage Dean had been referring to. In the form of two poorly aligned, partially healed metacarpal fractures.

"Yeah, guess so," Dean said. The answer so simple Cas barely suppressed a cringe.

"Dean, you do realize that means Michael could-"

"Take back the wheel without warning? Bingo." Came the cool response Cas hadn't been expecting. Forcing the angel to divide his attention by glancing up and- And suddenly Cas was sitting across from his least favorite- well, _one_ of his least favorite heavenly relations. One who was staring at him out of a pair of eyes he'd never thought would someday look at him with such calculating indifference. A matching, sneering smile slipping into place when it became clear to the archangel that Cas could think of nothing to say in return.  
"Nice work, brother," the angelic scourge of a sister planet condescended with a prim nod to where his and Cas's hands were nestled in each other's. Mocking him as only Michael could.  
"Have a nice chat."

And then it was Dean in his body once more, seemingly unaware of the switch that had just taken place, and Cas wasn't sure what to think of that.  
So instead, he softened his face and promised himself that he wouldn't. Not until he had finished the healing and was no longer looking his best friend in the far too gaunt, thinner than suited him face.

For himself as much as for Dean, he pulled a smile in place and moved on to the work of enacting his smallest of miracles. Reminding himself to be patient as his heavily suppressed grace pulsed forth at the rate of cold molasses.  
"It's not as bad as I was expecting," he commented. Realizing as he did that he hadn't needed to lie to do so.

"Guess he likes being able to use it," Dean said with a small, one shouldered shrug. No doubt making a courteous attempt to not interrupt his friend's efforts.

"Not enough to heal it fully," the angel griped. Trying not to let his repugnance show.

"...I don't think he could. This playpen works better than any of us hoped. 'S why he has no idea what he's doing. Dude can barely use any of his archangel juice in here."

The slow manner in which Dean's lids blinked and the almost slurred edge beginning to color his speech helped Cas to believe in what the hunter was saying. Fully.  
"Well, not having access to his 'juice', as you call it, doesn't give him an excuse to treat you like this," Cas insisted, a little louder than was strictly necessary. Knowing that even if Michael _wasn't_ eavesdropping right that second, he'd hear the rebuke.

"He's kinda treating _himself_ 'like this'. I've only been out long enough to catch some z's and complain about the old break," Dean said, illustrating his point by flexing the fingers of his healing hand. With a barely there cringe.

"This is a _recent_ 'break', Dean, and _you're_ suffering for it, so he's treating you this way and you don't deserve it. End of discussion," Cas said, just a hint more serious than he'd meant to be.

"...Alright," Dean agreed with brows raised. "Now that that's settled, how's the weather out in the real world? And what the hell time is it anyway?"

"It's a comfortable partly cloudy with a chance of overnight showers, UV index of three, winds east by southeast at three miles per hour, and it is 2 o'clock in the afternoon," Castiel informed with a small smile. Both because Dean's metacarpal were well on their way to resembling healthy bones once more, and because the two of them had not had the opportunity for small talk in quite some time.

"Wow. Did you memorize the _entire_ weather channel?" Dean asked. Eyes crinkling around the edges. In a good way.

"You never know when you'll need an umbrella," the answer that finally got Cas a chuckle. And helped him remember how much he _missed_ having his closest friend by his side.  
"How's the hand?"

"Huh? Oh, almost forgot about that," said the hunter as he raised the appendage in front of his face and gave it a good looking over. Then a thorough bend and flex.  
"Not stiff anymore. Well, not anymore than usual, anyway. Thanks, Cas," Dean said with a smile whose genuine nature could not be muted even through the thick layer of exhaustion. Nor the oppressive gloom.

"You're welcome. I only regret that there is little else I, or indeed Sam, can do for you," Cas admitted, every ounce of contrition absolutely appropriate.

"Hey, the world's still spinnin', ain't it?"

The exultation apparent in that one, commonplace observation, as shiningly pure and genuine as it was, nearly brought Castiel to tears.

A protracted moment passed though and the angel once again found his voice. "Yes, Dean, it is. Thanks to you."

"Naw, I'm just the guy who was dumb enough to let the anti-Antichrist in; you and Sam are the ones the world should be thanking. That _I_ should-"

"No, **really**, Dean, the world owes you its gratitude. Were it not for you and your... _fortitude_, Michael would either have found another well matched host and waged war against all that defies him, or else he would have taken you fully and we would all of us be dust on the wind already."  
The closed off silence that followed was no more than Cas had expected, but less than he'd hoped for. So, with a tentative clasp of his friend's newly perfect hand, he stood and turned for the door. "I'll send Sam in. Have a pleasant lunch, Dean."

Cas was over to the door, one fist raised to knock, when Dean finally, blessedly spoke. "Thanks, Cas. I needed that."

"You're welcome, Dean. And, Michael, you would be wise to take better care of your health from here on out. I am not so forgiving as your host would think me." And with that, Castiel took his leave. Near certain that he heard the unmistakable sound of a smile blossoming on the mouth of the occupant he was leaving inside.


	12. So What now?

**Okay. Michael letting Dean out? Kinda changes things. For everyone.**

A knock from the Room's interior alerted Castiel that the brothers were finished with their breakfast. The first meal they'd been afforded the chance to eat together in _far_ too long.  
Although, it was unlikely Sam had actually eaten anything during his visit, considering there had only been one bowl and-

A second knock reminded Cas of his assignment as guard, so with a jolt he moved forward, undid every lock, lifted the bar, and opened the door the exact distance necessary to allow his tallest of friends through.

"Is Dean well?" Cas asked as soon as Sam had slipped himself out the door. Which the angel dutifully shut the moment the hunter was clear.

"Since five minutes ago?" Sam asked, sounding rather perplexed.

"Yes, your exit was hushed and even now we're whispering," Cas explained as he noiselessly lowered the bar the last few centimeters back into place.

"Ah, right," Sam said, politely giving Cas the time necessary to relock every lock before continuing. "Soon as he got a little food in him, it was lights out. Probably for the rest of the day, if the snoring is any indication," the hunter informed as the angel moved to lead them away from their homemade ma'lak box.

"Good. It is only right that Michael give Dean the time for rest. God knows they both need it," Cas said with a sigh of relief as he reached the hall, stopping just outside the cavernous space then turning to Sam when he was sure their voices wouldn't carry.  
"What shall we do now? Now that Dean has been granted this, likely impermanent, freedom?" He asked, aware he was asking it of someone who was just as unlikely as himself to possess the answer to their newest of conundrums.

"Well, uh, first off, I'm pretty sure I need to make a phone call."

"A phone call? Sam, I don't-"

"He asked about Mom."

"Ah," Cas felt his face pinch in response, for Mary had not availed herself of a visit in over a month. _Well_ over, in fact. Before any of this Room related hubbub had started. And that excursion had been business related, so Castiel wasn't sure whether it should count to begin with.  
"Do you think she'll come?" The response the angel finally settled upon. Not wanting to speak ill of a good and righteous woman.

"Only one way to find out," Sam said as he pulled out his cellphone and selected the contact titled simply, 'Mom'.

To Castiel's surprise, the call was picked up after one ring and the mother on the other end of the line was smiling as she set down her glass to speak with her youngest son. Knowing purely by instinct that it was indeed him who'd called.

Hm. Perhaps he'd been a little harsh in his assessment of Mary Winchester. After all, _any_ parent is bound to worry about their children, the angel thought as he turned a blind ear to the phone conversation taking place over the vastness of hundreds of miles of American countryside.

Watching Sam speak to his mother on the phone, Castiel was reminded of how often he'd perceived Dean doing the exact same thing. And of how very happy such small, fond conversations had made his best and truest friend.

At the memory, Cas felt his mouth grow wider in a wistful smile as he found himself wishing for the days where Dean- a _free_ Dean would correct his inappropriate behaviors with a kindly, well placed word and a good humored expression.  
Inappropriate behaviors such as listening in on other's phone conversations. Which he was pointedly _not_ doing right that second. And which was proving a force of will power, considering the subject of said conversation was the human with whom he shared a profound bond. And who was living out the foreseeable future as well as the recent past locked away from all that he knew and loved. In a comfortless metal prison made not for him, but the necessary containment of the ruthless archangel possessing him.

Castiel closed his eyes for a moment, both cursing and blessing the Room and all it had already done for and to them.  
Cursing especially the cruel way in which it had negated his ability to divine the condition of his friend within. Obscuring its contents to the point where Cas had more than once wondered if Michael were even still inside. Until the next time the walls had trembled under those inhuman, inexhaustible attempts at escape, that is.

Perhaps the worst of it though, thought Cas around a deep breath, was how very alone that horrible blindness had left him. From the moment he'd locked that ma'lak door those thirty plus days ago, to the present. Unable through the impenetrable cube of wardings to so much as _perceive_ the other end of the profound bond that he and Dean shared. A bond which usually allowed him some marginal insight into how the seasoned hunter was doing, mentally or physically, and which Castiel had come to rely upon in times of hardship. Like a lifeline promising him that he wasn't the only one missing someone. A promise that things would be alright. In the end.

But he'd had to go the last month alone, Cas acknowledged, releasing that meditative breath as he opened his eyes. And he'd had to stop prodding at that sore spot inside him that missed his friend's presence with every day he couldn't feel Dean out and about in the world. A world which he'd had to readjust to life alone in.

...Except that he wasn't really alone. Not anymore. Not since Sam had worked through his own personal and immense sorrow and retaken his place as head of the last standing chapter of the American Men Of Letters, and as team leader of their Apocalypse world forces.

Yes, Sam had obviously felt the rift as well. Being a brother and similarly torn from the most important person in his life, surely his pain had been... crippling.  
As it had been for Castiel.

A Castiel who couldn't help but wonder whether Mary Winchester, on the receiving end of Sam's desperate call for support, had felt a similar severing of bonds between her oldest and herself when that door had shut. For what was _supposed_ to have been the first **and** last time.

"Love you," the parting words that brought Cas's attention back to the Winchester standing not five feet from him.  
"She's on her way," informed Sam as he stored his phone. Face marked with equal parts relief and apprehension.

"Wonderful. I'll air out her room and turn down the bed," Cas volunteered.

"Uh, that's thoughtful, Cas, but I don't-"

"I insist," Cas said, voice approaching firm. Knowing that it was the least he could do in repentance for his earlier, derisive thoughts.

"Alright then," Sam said on a perplexed huff. "I'll go look at the morning reports and get on the horn with point leaders; help out with hunting coordination," he announced. Then, with a small shake of his head, "Thanks, Cas."

"It's my pleasure," the angel insisted, feeling the sincerity down to his core.

And so, with a quick exchange of half formed smiles, the two hunters turned in disparate directions to see to their self-appointed tasks. Cas very much hoping that Dean was still... himself when his long-awaited visitor came calling.

**No worries, y'all. Looks like next chapter is turning out a whole heck of a lot longer than this one! And guess what? Mary's coming to town! :D**


	13. The Call

**Mary receives a call with some unexpected news and she can't decide whether she should shoot the messenger or hug him. And honestly, it feels like he'd be down for either.**

Mary didn't consider herself the sentimental type. Full stop.  
Generally, she being a born and bred hunter from a centuries long, unbroken line of like folk, she considered herself rather a callous and calculating person. A woman of action and passion. But, as she'd long ago learned the hard way, passion didn't always mean a hothead and a give 'em hell attitude. Sometimes it meant you loved someone so deep that you couldn't imagine life without them.

That's where Mary found herself, every now and again. In some way or other. Whether it was her parents being total squares, trying to tell her what to do and how to live her life, getting married to the Marine who'd somehow enticed her into a life of suburban normalcy, or sitting in her rocking chair with one toddler snuggled up on her lap and his newborn baby brother nestled against her chest.

Mary knew that anyone who got to know her during those 'retirement years' would have had something exactly opposite to say about her and her razor honed, killer instincts, but that had been one hundred percent by design.

After all, suburban moms weren't supposed to bury wraiths in the backyard.

But all that stuff, her white picket fence, her two bouncing babies, her _husband_\- all that pretending nonsense was behind her now and Mary was having a grand old time once again letting her hair down and enjoying herself any which way she pleased.  
Like right then. Putting her feet up at Donna's dining table, the last of a damn good cup of peach tea going down easy and the radio on low in the den. Nat King Cole singing about how he loves you For Sentimental Reasons.

Then her cellphone rang and Mary found herself answering before she'd even checked the caller ID. Knowing exactly who'd be calling this hour.  
"Hey, Sam."

"Hey, uh, Mom?"

"Yeah, Sam?" Mary asked, letting her feet slide to the floor as she sat up straight at the stilted greeting.

"I think you might wanna come visit... sometime soon," the hesitation in her boy's voice made her hackles stand on end.

"Why? What's wrong? Is it Dean?" She asked as her body launched itself from her chair at the table and started marching for the door.

"Uh, yes _and_ no," came the voice of her youngest child over the slight static of the phone's speaker.

"Michael then?" Mary asked as she scooped up her keys and began to shoulder her way into her hunting jacket.

"Also yes _and_ no." The half-desperate chuckle on the other end of the line stopped her from out and out tearing off for her truck.

"Samuel, you tell me what's wrong and you tell me _now_ or I swear to God-"

"Dean's back." Mary's heart clenched at the news. But it clenched **harder** when her boy went on. "For now."

"What- what do you mean, 'for now'? What's going on?" She asked as she leaned her back against the foyer wall. Door within easy reach, just in case.

"He's- Michael's 'letting Dean out'. To eat and sleep. We think."

"Why would he do that?"

"Because he sees those things as beneath him but can't access his archangel powers to circumvent his vessel's need for the basics."

"You mean _Dean's_ need for the basics." It came out harder then Mary'd meant to say it, but something about her boy's tone just then wasn't sitting right with her.

"Right, sorry. Uh, Dean's been out all morning, at _least_, mostly sleeping, but me and Cas both got a chance to talk with him and... he's doing okay, Mom," Sam said, in a way that spoke volumes about how hard this whole situation has been on **everyone** involved. "He actually seems... almost resigned? Like he'd be okay spending the rest of his life in that room, with Michael, so long as it kept the world turning."

"That's our Dean," Mary admitted with a sad smile, moving the phone to her other ear to give her arm a rest. "Always wants to save the world, no matter the cost."

"In _spite_ of the cost," Sam agreed with a wry sigh.

"Well, I need to see him," Mary said, even as she cringed at how... insufficient it sounded, "so I'm hitting the road and I'll be there around dinner time."

"Alright, see you soon, Mom. Love you."

"Love you too, Sam."

As the line went dead and Mary straightened from her lean against the wall, she realized just how much she'd missed the phone calls Dean used to make. The funny little ones he'd sprinkle through the month, just to ask how she was or reminisce about 'the good old days'. Which he'd done frequently those last few weeks... before the calls had stopped altogether.

With a shake of her head, Mary shoved her phone in her pocket and yanked open the door. Within minutes, she'd snaked through the beautiful backwoods and small roads that surrounded and stretched out from Donna's cabin and was burning rubber on her first stretch of open road.

Mary'd been wanting a visit anyway.  
That's what she told herself as she tempted fate for deserted country highway hours straight. Pedal brushing the metal a few times when she'd needed to coax her truck up an incline.  
She was just glad she hadn't needed to outfox any blue and reds, nor squish any sweet little furry critters in her blazing streak of a journey.

Honestly, by the time the sky started to tip towards that light orange indicative of yet another sunset, Mary'd covered more ground than she figured anyone who'd built those old roads had ever intended to be traveled in a single day. And maybe that was reckless, maybe that was just a tad _illegal_ even, but she wasn't in the mood for caring about any of that. Not even when she started seeing other vehicles on the road, and the shocked faces of the drivers inside them when she flew by and gave the rear view a glance. And a smirk.

She _did_ slow down when it became necessary to share blacktop with actual evening traffic, but she wasn't about to let a little thing like a country version of rush hour take the wind out of her sails, so her trusty steed stayed ahead of the pack and outstripped everything all the way into Lebanon. And only once there, only once within the city limits, did Mary pump the breaks at a time when it wasn't absolutely right up next to vital.  
The bunker was still the most secure hideout she knew of and there was no way she was jeopardizing that for her boys. Not if she could help it.

So when she rolled up and parked at the spot that had somehow, a while back, been thoughtfully reserved specifically for her, it was at _just_ over the local speed limit and with a moment spared to set the parking break. Then it was right on up to and through that door, not even stopping to unlock the thing as it swung open just as she'd started fishing for the magic key her boy's had copied for her.

It was Castiel, of course, with the prescience of mind to know **exactly** when to expect her, so she spared him a polite half nod and took the stairs like they were a slide. At the bottom and ready to go before the angel'd even said-

"Hello, Mary. It's good to see you again."

"You too, Castiel," she said in a far more distracted voice than she'd usually allow. "Where's-"

"Sam's coming. I called him. He was resting."

"Oh, thanks," Mary said, finding she was still unable to stay still as her head flipped back and forth, trying to figure the right direction to-

"Hey, Mom," came the voice of her youngest child as he entered the main area. "The Room's this way."

And they were off, the angel hot on their heels as Sam led the way through the bunker and down a corridor Mary was pretty sure she'd never seen before.  
One more corner and the hunter turned mother was brought to a stop by the sight of something she wasn't sure she was seeing right.

It was a room alright, though the thing looked more like a Gulag solitary confinement cell; harsh, austere, completely metal, no windows to be seen. Mary doubted you could even hear much of anything from inside that thing, short of cannon fire or maybe someone pounding on the outside wall.  
It was like the world's ugliest, life-sized doll house, and she couldn't believe that her boy was _living_ in there. **Willingly**.

When she turned to face Sam and saw the look of bone deep regret on his face, she felt for him. She really did. A brother forced by circumstance and a dearth of other, _better_ options to impress upon his own flesh and blood something as harsh and unforgiving- something as **inhumane** as that ugly-

Mary hated herself for it, but even boring into those guilt filled puppy dog eyes that she loved so very deeply, she just knew she wasn't going to be able to stop herself from blaming Sam for this. Because, no matter how you sliced it, in some way, this was his fault. He'd designed it after all. The Room was his brainchild and he had the key and he was the one who'd called and told her that Dean was here and...  
And he'd been crushed while he did it. He was torn up and spit out by every step of this process. Mary could see it in the way that he didn't want to look at the humongous hut in the middle of that cavernous chamber.

So, with a steadying breath, the mother of legend told herself to stow her shit and suck it up. After all, she couldn't blame her youngest for what was happening to her oldest. Not when it had been Dean who'd left Sam with no other choice- and she knew that for a fact.  
Dean had told her. On their last phone call.

Not able to take Sam's ultimately 'my fault' face a second longer, Mary stepped forward, took her son in a tight embrace, and sighed. Only letting go once she could feel his no doubt _uncomfortably_ tight ribs go supple. And he'd hugged her back, of course.  
"You said he asked for me?" She asked, feeling lighter now that she'd absolved her youngest of most of the blame she'd been unfairly harboring against him.

"Yeah, this morning, before he went back to sleep. He ate, asked about you, which is his version of **begging** to see someone," Mary had to bite her lip at that tidbit, "so I called." The exhausted huff at the end accented just how bone-tired and wrung-out Sam looked. Which was something they'd be addressing as soon as her schedule allowed. Because 'at the end of their rope' wasn't Mary's favorite look on _anybody_. Let alone her own kid.

"Is he still- Can I see him now?" She prompted with a head twitch toward the big grey abomination.

"Yeah," Sam said, practically jumping as he moved to show her closer. "We're pretty sure Michael isn't interested in being 'out' again until their body- until _Dean_ is rested."

At the poor initial choice of words, Mary resisted the urge to take back her most recent hug and did her best not to put another mark on Sam's portion of her naughty list, all the while keeping a perfectly composed, expectant face. To which, having come to a stop a few feet from the door, Sam eventually reached into his shirt collar and fished out a necklace which he summarily pulled over his head and off.  
Oh. So that was where he kept the keys, Mary thought as the three strange, _homemade_ things jingled, suspended from a chain that her boy didn't seem to know what to do with.

"Uh," said Sam when Mary moved to liberate the keys from his unmoving hand, "sorry, these'll only work for me."

"Or me," added the third person in the room. The angel Mary had almost forgotten was there.

"Okay. Is there something else I should know before I go in there and see my _son_?" 'Asked' the lady who wasn't interested in wasting any more of her potentially **very** limited time with her imprisoned, _possessed_-

"I believe Sam is unsure how to tell you of Dean's stipulation for visits," came the rough voice she still had difficulty believing belonged to an angel.

When she turned, Mary saw a look of regret on Castiel's face.  
"What 'stipulation'?" She asked, the question directed at both cagey key keepers.

"These," Sam said as he pulled from a pocket a pair of old, obviously enchanted, likely ironwork-

"Handcuffs? Seriously?" She asked as she took the ridiculously decorated, no doubt uncomfortable cuffs from her ginormous, uncharacteristically reticent son.

"You know Dean," the only answer she got. Also the only one she needed, but an affirmative still would have been nice.

"He insists," affirmed the only one of them with a shred of manners.

With a quick nod to Castiel, Mary turned her attention back to the son who was making this harder than it needed to be and held out an expectant hand. Into which, Sam deposited the lone, matching cuff key.

"Just, um," Sam said when she made to turn for the box, holding her attention just a little longer. "I just thought you should know, before you see for yourself, he's- Dean's a little worse for wear," the hunter who'd done nothing but obfuscate this whole time said. Right before _finally_ moving to unlock the hideous prison.

"Weak, weary, worryingly thin," the angel supplied when Mary sent a worried glance his way. "But, Mary," he added, serious tone grabbing her attention, "I would advise that you not let your guard down while in Michael's presence. No matter your son's outward condition." Mary felt her eyes narrow without her say-so at the bald-faced warning. "Michael is cunning and resourceful and he is **listening**, so expect nothing you say to be private. Nor any physical contact to be truly safe."

"Thanks for the heads up, Castiel," said the hunter who'd known how to handle herself since before she'd even attended her first day of school. With as much sincerity as she could muster.

"It is both my duty and my pleasure," the angel said as he gripped the door's handle and, at Sam's nod, pulled it open for her.

With a quick nod of her own, Mary held her breath and schooled her body to stay relaxed as she took a brisk step through the barely open door and into an archangel's lair. Hoping against hope that it was indeed her boy waiting for her inside, and not the despot who'd nearly wiped out all human life on a planet exactly similar to their own.

***Spoilers if you haven't seen 14.18!***  
**Weirdly enough, I had this chapter lined out before Mary had her big episode ('Absence') this season. Imagine my surprise when it touched upon many of the points made through this! And then... she ****_died_****?! For real?!**  
**Sorry. Not doing that here! ;D**


	14. Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary

**It's been a month since she last heard her boy's voice. Maybe longer.**  
**Mary just hopes Dean's the one waiting for her on the other side of that cold metal door.**

The door shut with a thunk, _right_ behind her, followed close by the unmistakable sound of a bar being set in place.

Now she'd gone and done it, Mary thought with a shiver as she willed her eyes to adjust to the gloom of an **unlit** prison.  
Now she was stuck in there with the archangel who'd held her captive in a medieval torture device and nearly wiped out civilization on another- No. No, Sam had told her: Dean was out and he'd asked for her and she was here to see her first born child. End of story.

So, racing thoughts well on their way to stilled, Mary concentrated as a noise other than her own heartbeat finally reached her.

Yep. Those were his snores all right. She'd recognize them anywhere. Sounded the same as back when she used to tuck him in for the night. Back during that brief window of time when life had been innocent and oh-so simple.  
Back before she'd died and left her family all alone.

Plucking up a little of the old Campbell courage, Mary blinked until she could at least make out the walls, then followed the drifting sounds of a large person enjoying a much needed doze. Walking forward with soft and cautious steps, not knowing what kind of bumps or divots the hand-welded floor might be dotted with. Surprised when it proved smooth as any.

"Dean?" She asked from about the center of the Room, not wanting to startle a seasoned hunter awake from too close.

Immediately, though subtly, the cadence of the breathing changed and after a near silent moment, a soft "Hm?" met Mary's ears.

"Dean? Sam called, said you were 'out', so I came to see you," Mary informed as she picked her way over to the dark lump she was now able to make out arranged along one wall.

"Mom?" Slurred the stirring shadow. "What're you doing in here?

"Like I said: Paying a visit," she said, taking those last few steps that brought her alongside a narrow mattress tucked neatly into a corner. As far from the door as possible.

"...You got the cuffs?" The cautious question the unmoving lump little more than whispered.

"Right here," she assured, holding the things up in their ready position.

"In that case: Let's slap those babies on and have ourselves a visit," insisted a Dean who moved just enough to make his wrists easily accessible. Almost like he was scared to do more until cuffed.

So, with a heart that felt heavier by the second, Mary bent and did just that; locked her own son into a pair of fully warded, archangel strength cuffs. Hating the aggressive way they clicked as she fitted them in place.

Then, only once 'properly secured', Dean took a lengthy moment to sit up on his bed, back against one wall, and gave her a good looking over.  
"No offense, Mom, but you look like crap."

The _lip_ on that boy, Mary thought with a blink.  
Here she was, having driven all day, worried sick, and what did she get for it?

Turns out: exactly what she'd needed, she admitted as she released her first real laugh in... forever.  
"You're one to talk; you're nothing but skin and bones! What've they been _feeding_ you in here?"

"Plenty. Just old Mikey boy thought _eating_ was 'beneath him'," Dean said with a wry smirk. "Angels, am I right?"

"Wait, so Michael, the archangel, _seriously_ thought **eating** was 'beneath him'?" Mary asked, emphasizing her disbelief with a pair of air quotes. Rolling her eyes when Dean gave a 'basically' shrug.  
"What the hell? Everyone's gotta eat."

"Guess Feathers over here didn't get the memo," the near emaciated hunter said with an offhand gesture at his head.

"Not even when you dropped twenty pounds?" Mary asked with an eyebrow raise she knew was likely to go unseen.

"Honestly don't think he noticed," Dean said in a light tone.

"He 'notice' when he could feel your ribs through your shirt?" Mary asked, allowing the smallest hint of concern on her voice.

"Nope. Didn't even notice when he passed out cold in the middle of a hissy fit," the glorified skeleton informed. "Hell, far as I can tell, the schmuck _still_ hasn't noticed," Dean concluded with a huffing chuckle.

"Wow. Stubborn _and_ clueless? I take it the two of you get along pretty well then?" Mary said in the most 'that's a joke' voice she could muster as she lowered herself to join Dean on the mattress. Copying her son's relaxed posture as she gauged what distance was far enough for safety, yet close enough for comfort.  
The soft smile she could just make out spreading across his gloom obscured face proving she'd gotten it all just right.

"We don't hate each other much as we could," the possessed hunter admitted with a lilting nod.

"Is that the standard these days?" Mary asked, bumping Dean's elbow with her's. Glad when the joke made him snort.

"God, I hope not," Dean said with a shake of his head. "But, turns out, sharing a room with an evil, war-lording, two-timing, Hitler wannabe, ain't all it's cracked up to be."

"So he's going soft?" Mary asked, wryness cranked up to eleven.

"Nope. Still wants humanity to burn. Very badly," Dean said in a mild tone. "_So_ bad, he's basically been ignoring me this whole time," he finished. Just as mildly.

"So he's just going soft for _you_?"

A moment of silence wherein both parties gave that a chance to sink in passed, and then was broken by a bark of what may well have been the most incredulous laughter Mary'd ever heard.  
A laughter that pealed off the walls and filled the enclosed space in a way that reminded the mother of two what happiness felt like. Reminded her that that was something her kids had been living without for far too long.

Reminded her of what she could have had if she hadn't died all those years ago.

As the worst of the excitement began to peter from her oldest's obvious glee, Mary reached out a tentative hand to set on his lightly bouncing biceps, hoping-

"Hold."

Mary froze at the frigid syllable, fingers a hair's breadth from the cloth of Dean's sleeve.

Only, she realized a moment late, it wasn't _Dean_ who'd suddenly stopped laughing. Wasn't her **son** whose face had changed in one all too startling instant; every hint of happiness replaced in a blink by an impassive mask of disdain and annoyance. Transformed instead into a face she'd seen before. On another earth. On a _very_ different body.

And then, when those piercing eyes locked onto hers, Mary almost jumped right out of her skin and off the mattress. Only just stopping herself because she knew better than to show even the barest shred of weakness in the presence of the scourge now _actively_ possessing her son.

"I'd be cautious with how many liberties I take were I you, Mary; your meat suit of a son might love you, but there's no good blood between _us_."

Then the stony face of a calamity waiting to happen was gone and Mary was watching Dean finish off the last of his chuckles. Seeming oblivious to the lightning fast switch, and subsequent threat, that had just taken place. The one which Mary wasn't about to ruin the good mood complaining about.  
Instead, she took her hand back and pretended she hadn't just been given the most hair-raising warning she'd ever had sneered her way. Just let herself smile along while the smiling was good, and forcibly put the incident out of her mind.

She _was_ visiting her son, after all. A son who sounded like he was about ready to go on with the speaking part of their visit; clearing his throat and resettling himself against the wall they were both leaning against.

"So... how's Sam holdin' up?"

"What?" Mary asked, rather thrown by the curveball opener.

"I'll bet he's worn a hole in the floor, worrying about whether I'm going to survive all this," Dean said with a gesture at his obviously less than healthy physique. "Should've seen his face when he came in here. You'd think he'd seen a ghost."

"Yeah, well, I'll bet it didn't change how happy he was to see you again," Mary assured with another elbow bump.

"Yeah," the hunter serving someone else's prison time said in a wistful way. "Likewise."

"Mmhm. But, ya know," the mother of said inmate started, trying her best to sound playful, "I'll bet not as happy as me." The embarrassed half squirm that got had Mary flashing back to when a simple nose nuzzle had been enough to make her Dean do **exactly** that. Her mind doing backflips trying to reconcile the six foot plus full-grown _hunter_ beside her with the wriggly, half pint cookie monster she'd been raising only a handful of years ago.

...Or, rather, _thirty_-handful years ago, by any but her account.

"...I'm glad you came, Mom," said Mary's non-toddler, breaking her from her little trip down memory lane. "I don't know how long I have behind the wheel; don't know how soon Michael's gonna want out again, so I just want you to know that-"

"I'm glad I came too, Dean," Mary cut in, voice fond yet firm. "But I don't want to hear any of that 'limited time' crap, because now you have Sam and Castiel _and_ me on the case, and I'm gonna make sure everything turns out fine," she said in what Dean probably would have called her 'mom voice. Tacking on a confident, "You'll see," after what looked like a skeptical eyebrow raised in her direction.

"Well, guess I can't argue with that," the hunter with the sentient nuclear warhead living in his subconsciousness conceded.

"Good," Mary said with a nod, "now I just have to convince-"

A sudden growling snapped Mary's mouth shut and caused the seasoned hunter to sit bolt upright, ears perked and-

"Dean?" Mary asked, relaxing her fist from where it had clenched itself tight. Ready for anything.

"Yeah?"

"That was your stomach, wasn't it?"

"Yeah," the similarly seasoned hunter admitted with a half mouthed curl of a smile.

"I'll let Sam know you're ready for dinner then," Mary said as she picked herself off the mattress. "Hm, probably me too, come to think of it," she added as she took a moment to needlessly dust herself off. Pausing to give her son a parting smile before she began to back off toward the door. Not wanting to cut the visit short but knowing she couldn't stand to see him go hungry a minute longer than he had to.

"Hey, mind telling Sam something for me?" Came the soft-spoken request that easily stopped the woman who was already feeling the beginning aches of separation. Then, at her nod, Dean went on. "That if he comes in here with oatmeal again, I'm kicking his punk ass?"

At that, Mary couldn't help but snort. "_I'll_ kick it if he _tries_," she assured. "Either you're getting protein, or Sam's getting a time-out."

With a snort of his own, the shadow at the back of the Room shook his head in a disbelieving sort of way.  
"Love you, Mom."

"Love you too, Dean," came Mary's automatic response. The warmth in the words reinforcing the sincerity of it.

On that note, Mary turned around and knocked on the door. Doing her best to ignore the cruel way the metal bit into her knuckles as she waited for the key keepers to let her out.

**So... that thing I do sometimes where I take longer than expected to update because I was working on multiple chapters at once? Yeah. Did it again. Sorry y'all, but hopefully that means the next will be ready soon!**  
**Thanks for reading and I hope ya'll're enjoying it as much as I am!**


	15. Doubling Down

**Mary's not happy about the conditions in that death trap. But she ****_is_**** happy to be back with her family. When they need her most.**

The sear of the chamber's lights caused tears to well in the corners of her dark adjusted eyes, but Mary blinked away the majority of the pain prompted moisture and turned her attention to the one responsible for keeping her boy in such barbaric conditions. Face going hard when a pang from her tender knuckles reminded her just how unbelievably, _hellishly_ inhospitable that 'Room' behind her really was.  
Then, when her ire didn't cause the blurry warden to back away like his immediate safety depended on it, she took two firm steps forward, lifted an accusatory finger, and let the indifferent figure have it.

"You left him in there for a _month_? Without **checking** on him? I barely recognized him with all the weight he's lost! And no furniture? No basic human comforts? No _decency_? He doesn't even have a nightlight," Mary finished on a hiss. Supremely unhappy look firmly in place as she glowered up at her towering, scruffy, negligent, quite possibly alcoholic excuse for a-

Then her vision cleared that last bit and suddenly it wasn't her husband she was giving a piece of her mind. It was her grownup _son_ she was... gawking at.

"Oh my god. I-I'm sorry, Sam, I don't know what- Wow." At the wounded, though worryingly 'I deserved that' look her youngest gave her, Mary regrouped and started over.  
"For a second, I thought I was talking to your father," she explained, self-admonishing grimace firmly in place. "I know we haven't really talked about it all that much, but, even though he _cared_ plenty, John wasn't always the most attentive parent, even way back, and-" Again, Mary cut herself off. After giving the bridge of her nose a firm squeeze though, she'd gathered her thoughts well enough to go on. "When Dean was a toddler, he needed a nightlight to sleep and your father was trying to 'wean him off of it'. Right before..."

"Huh," Sam said on a confused huff, "I never would've pegged Dean as the 'afraid of the dark' type."

"He was a baby, Sam. _Both_ of you were when I- when I left. And now the two of you are taller than John ever was and _almost_ as good at hunting as me." Mary let herself smile when her observations won her a chuckle.  
"I know it's been a few years, but it's still hard to wrap my head around you two _not_ being half my height and swaddled," Mary said as she took her son's hand and gave it a bolstering, apologetic squeeze.

"I get it," Sam said as he gave a squeeze back. "Sometimes... I forget I have a mom. Old habits die hard, I guess."

"Yes, indeed. I often have to remind myself that there _is_ no garrison to return to. And that my heavenly father's chosen name is 'Chuck'."

At that, Mary turned to the angel she'd once again forgotten was there and just studied him for a moment. Surprised that she'd never once wondered whether he might have parents of his own.

After a beat, the hunter with the perpetually rumpled appearance gave a look of realization and averted his gaze.  
"Ah, this was a private conversation. Apologies. I'll take my leave."

"No, Castiel," Mary said with a start when he moved to do just that. "You're part of this family too," the words that got the walking, talking miracle to stop in his tracks. "And from what I've heard; what I've _seen_? You've earned that spot a dozen times over."

Making no attempt at a rebuttal, Castiel averted his eyes once again and shifted his feet. Unwittingly allowing a rosy hue to sneak its way on his face. Which turned out one of the most endearing things Mary'd seen the guy do. Right up next to him arguing with a pigeon over whether the 'five second rule' should apply to soft serve ice cream.

"Yeah, Cas, Dean and me, we've thought of you as one of our own for- for a _long_ damn time," Sam assured with a serious chuckle. "Not a whole lot we'd want to keep private from you."

"Except porn," the angel said, a tiny smile turning the edges of his mouth up. Improved mood intact when he looked to Mary to add, "We're not supposed to talk about it."

"Understandable," Mary said, punctuating the acknowledgment with a pair of brows raised in her son's direction.

"Don't look at _me_," Sam said, hands up in a defensive posture. "That's his and Dean's thing."

"_Not_ talking about porn?" Mary asked, **more** confused than she'd been a second before.

"Yes," Castiel confirmed with a nod. "Dean says that it's natural- _healthy_ even, for adults to watch, but that we don't talk about it. Ever."

"Yep, good ol' Dean, always talking about porn," Sam said in a very 'next subject' sort of way.

"_Never_ talking about porn," Cas corrected with a 'you should know better by now' shake of his head.

To which, Sam looked every inch as at a loss as Mary felt. Before he shook himself out of it and turned his attention back to the crux of the matter.

"So, what do you think?" Sam asked her with a wave over at the terrifying cube in the middle of the chamber. "A-aside from everything you said earlier, of course. Which is all stuff we can improve on now that Dean's getting out and-"

"What I think," Mary started with a pensive look, cutting off the quickening ramble before Sam could hurt himself, "is that that boy needs all the help he can get. _All_ of you do," she finished with a pointed raise of her brow.

"I take it this means you'll be staying with us? For the foreseeable future. For Dean," Castiel asked, tone and posture far closer to pleading than Mary'd thought she'd ever see from the stoic angel.

"How could I stay away?"

The smiles she got in return both made her heart feel lighter _and_ deepened the shades of guilt pooling near her heart at the knowledge that, from the start, they'd had to go through all of this without her.  
She wasn't about to make her family go through that again. Not if she could help it.

**So I decided that since Mary's probably a ways older than either of her kids, her night vision isn't quite as keen as the rest of the team's. Then I had a little fun with that. :D**  
**The 'we're not supposed to talk about it' bit is in reference to a scene, from S6 Ep10 Caged Heat, which is one of the show's jokes that's stuck with me best. So I had a laugh out of that and sincerely hope y'all did too! XD**

**Also, just so's y'all know, next chapter is going to center around Sam and Dean! Which I'm looking forward to because the two haven't had much screen time together in a good long while!**


	16. Checkmate

**Having another hunter around, Michael and the gang have managed to get a rhythm going. One that includes Dean getting to eat, sleep, and even have some one-on-one time with his family.**  
**This is one of those one-on-one's.**

"Checkmate."

"What?" Sam asked with a disbelieving chuckle.

"Checkmate, dude."

"Uh, look again, _dude_: my king's safe and I've still got-"

"_You_ look again, **dude**, 'cause your king's one move away from gettin' his freakin' head cut off."

Sam looked up from the admittedly close game to better argue his side, but at the unexpected sight of a serious, studious expression across from him, instead found himself swallowing whatever he'd been about to say. Mouth snapping shut when Dean caught him staring.

"Don't look at _me_," the older Winchester said with a sudden, widening smirk, "it's your king needs help."

Deciding to humor the guy who hadn't had so much as half a chance for cheating in the completely distraction free solitude of his Room, Sam looked back down to where his king was sitting safe and sound exactly where he'd left it. On the outskirts of an active war zone, snuggled between just enough protective heavy hitters to-

"Wait, when did your knight get there?" Sam demanded, leaning to squint himself a better look at the board in the 'light' provided by their wimpy, half used candle. Nearly balking at how close to death it turned out his principal piece actually was.

"Told ya," Dean said with a cocky snort.

Not sure exactly what'd just happened, Sam snapped his head back up to figure it out. Only, when he met eyes with his opponent, it wasn't the pair of eyes he'd been expecting to find in that smug face.

"For once, your ignoramos of an older brother is right," the uninvited archangel informed with a prim nod. "Checkmate."

"Hey, my brother's _not_ an ignoramos," Sam all but snapped as-

"Okay. Where'd _that_ come from?"

As Michael let Dean back out. Without even the _hint_ of a warning.

"Uh... Sorry?" Sam saved, surprised that Michael was still able to do that without Dean noticing. "What I meant was: The student becomes the teacher. Good game," Sam said, holding out his hand for a congratulatory shake. Remembering late that that was one of Dean's big 'visiting the guy possessed by an archangel' no-no's.

Thankfully, the victor pretended he hadn't seen the thoughtless gesture and went straight to enjoying his spoils.  
"Tch," he scoffed as he looked over the board, no doubt counting how many of Sam's pieces he'd managed to capture, "dude, I've been _letting_ you win since you were, like, nine."

"_What_?"

"Figured you were old enough now I could stop holding back," the guy in the clunky handcuffs said as he eased his hands behind his head and took a leisurely lean back in his bright red, childproof beanbag. Self-satisfied look deepening with every moment the younger brother spent wracking his memory for a sign- _any_ sign that might prove the assertion one way or the other.

After what felt like far too long, Sam straightened, ignoring the shift of polystyrene pellets beneath his own tuchus, stared his brother right in the eye and went with his gut.  
"Bullshit."

The only answer it got him was a cackling laugh the likes of which Sam hadn't heard since... probably back before the two of them had brought about Armageddon. The first time. Back before Dean had finally gotten out of the juvenile habit of making fun of Sam every time he made even the slightest slip up.  
This laugh though wasn't quite as 'you're an idiot' as those had been, and honestly, Sam was glad Dean had it in him to let loose a little. In fact, considering everything, he wasn't going to hold it against Dean even if the guy was blowing one hundred percent, grade A smoke up his a-

"Naw, Sam, I mean, you're great and all, it's just-" Dean cut himself off while he made a face that looked like him trying and failing to wipe away his victorious grin. Then he started over.  
"You know those books you made me check out for you so you could become 'a chess playing grandmaster'? That summer, way back?"

"I don't remember saying it like that, but yeah?" Sam acknowledged, completely at a loss as to where this was going. And where it was coming from.

With a Cheshire grin the size of which Sam hadn't seen in ages, Dean eventually answered.  
"I read them first."

Sam felt his mind short circuit at the distant memory of his extremely younger self pestering a similarly younger Dean over when he was going to get to read the new book he'd asked his big bro to bring home with him.  
"'I'll give it to you when I'm good and ready.' Oh my God. I thought you were just being a jerk; sitting on it- making me beg and do chores while-while you watched tv on the couch. But you were actually _reading_ them?"

"If I didn't know how to play, you'd've been bored out of your skull before we got the board set up," Dean confirmed with a sagely nod. Smile turned soft the way it always did when he talked about 'the good old days'.

"Wait, if you knew how to play, then why'd you make me explain the rules every time we broke it out?" Sam asked, unable to curb his curiosity.

"Nothing nine year old you enjoyed better than getting to tell people what to do," came the most ridiculous answer Sam'd- "'Sides, made the games last longer."

To that, Sam could only sit back and stare. Stare at the brother who never ceased to annoy, stump, and —it turned out— care about him. Which made Sam wonder with a thick, sickly sinking feeling, somewhere deep in his gut, just how much of what Dean used to do- or even _still_ did, was for his 'little' brother's benefit?

In response to the lengthening silence, Dean shook his head and began straightening the board.  
"Well, I know you got important Apocalypse Gang coordinating stuff to get back to, so-"

"Actually, Cas is on top of that today," Sam corrected, "So, you're not getting rid of me that easy."

"...You givin' me permission to kick your ass?" Dean ventured. The shimmer of their momentarily guttering candle playing tricks with Sam's eyes, making it look almost like the guy across from him was second guessing his own question.

"Giving you permission to _try_," Sam corrected.

"Well, alright then. Guess Sammy the grandmaster's finally gonna see what playing in the big leagues feels like," Dean said, a hint of challenge sneaking into it near the end.

Sam smiled at that. Couldn't help it. Wasn't gonna let himself ignore the new evidence to suggest that, no matter how aloof he might've acted at the time, Dean had _always_ cared. And that even back then, even at his teenaged jerkiest, he'd been way better at showing it than their dad **ever** had.

Bolstered by the eagerness in Dean's movements as he reset the board, Sam regrouped and put his full attention on the game that was about to start. Hoping to beat the guy who'd just made one of the loftiest claims a chess player could make.

But as he reached out and made his first move, Sam found himself once again staring at that studious expression across from him. The one that looked so very out of place on that ultimately familiar face.  
It was in that moment that Sam realized that somewhere in the recesses of his psyche, somewhere where a young version of himself still held onto that flame of hero worship he'd once held so tight to, that he _wanted_ his big bro to make good on that ridiculous threat of his. That the little kid in him _wanted_ Dean to win.

That _Sam_ wanted his big brother to prove just how good he was and kick his kid brother's ass.  
Royally

**I've only ever played a few games of it, so please bear with me if the depiction of chess in this chapter is at all wonky!**  
**Also, I figured that this would be the kind of thing Dean would do for his little bro. So I went to town and made him a chess playing virtuoso! XD**  
**Hope y'all enjoyed the brotherly bonding!**


	17. It's Just A Chair

**Life in a metal box doesn't have many natural comforts to offer. But with good behavior, maybe the wardens will throw in a bone or two.**

Sam sighed as Cas shut the Ma'lak door behind him, not sure exactly how he felt about his newest sibling related revelation. And the fact that Dean had basically been playing teaching matches against him for the past twenty nine years. Even though _he_ was the one who'd participated in every chess club he could find all the way through his first semester of law school.

"Who won?" Came that familiar voice from where the angel was busy locking up.

"Uh, long story," Sam said with an apologetic glance backwards.

"How're the bean bags working out?" Asked the mother who thankfully knew when a change of subject would be appreciated. Sitting with a drink between both hands at a card table they'd set up off to one side of the chamber a while back, hoping it would make waiting easier. Or at least more comfortable.

"For Dean? Great. For Michael?" Sam started, shaking his head in a strange fusion of amusement and disappointment. "Guy's still refusing to sit on anything that isn't a 'proper chair'."

"Perhaps, this is one of those instances in which we must be firm with him?" Cas offered from where he was busy setting the bar in place.

"Uh, I'm actually thinking I can get him to give his word not to bludgeon any of us," Sam said as he put the chess board and it's self stored pieces away on the 'entertainment' cart they'd also not so long ago made a place for. Careful not to spill the melted wax out the top of the candle they really needed to rethink as he put that down too. "Considering that he hasn't done anything overtly evil in a while, kinda looks like he's ready to play nice."

"Yeah, well he hasn't had much _opportunity_ for 'evil'. Dean and all of us've made sure of that," Mary said around the leisurely sips she was taking from her steaming cup of... tea, probably. "But a couple weeks of good behavior a saint does not make, and I just don't think I'm comfortable trusting him with something like that yet," she finished, setting down her drink alongside the serious remark.

"And I totally get that," Sam assured, "but at the same time, I feel like Michael's... changing, somehow. Like he appreciates how he's being treated now- a-and I don't think he's gonna jeopardize that right when he's starting to get what he wants," he finished with a brow crumpled in concern.

"I feel that a middle approach may be most prudent," Cas offered, walking to bring himself into easy view of both other hunters. "We should not be fearful of rewarding good behavior, but, as Mary rightly pointed out, we also should not be foolhardy with the trust we extend."

When his audience nodded, in understanding if not agreement, the angel went on.

"Perhaps, because Michael seems to respond most favorably to Sam, he should be the one to introduce a 'proper chair'. As well as the stipulations for keeping his new privilege," the angel concluded with a gesture at the Sam he'd nominated.

"I could bring a couple next time I go in there; take them with me when I leave. See how he handles that and go from there?" Sam suggested. Wondering as he did whether that evening might be a good time for it.

"Well, so long as we're not _leaving_ bar room brawl weapons in there with him... sounds like a good idea. Let's just make sure they don't weigh much," Mary tacked on with a little grimace.

"Or have any sharp edges," Cas added, voice almost comically serious.

"Uh, it's just a chair," Sam reminded, rather amused by all the concern. "Besides, if he really wanted to hurt any of us, he could always use his fists. Or try to smother us with a bean bag."

"The only reason he hasn't is because he's not stupid enough to try something that _can't_ work," Mary insisted, expression teetering the line between wry and hard. "He's not gonna risk losing his one shot at an element of surprise on slim to no odds. If he could get his hands on a 'proper chair' though..." she trailed off with a shrug, knowing her point had been made.

"Okay, so we're test running a couple chairs," Sam said in a 'team huddle' tone. "Since you two obviously have some special specifications in mind, you get to pick them out, then we'll make dinner and I'll make Michael promise to only use his new accessory for good."

"For _sitting_ on," Cas corrected, head bobbing in assent.

"So long as you're good with it," Mary said with a nod at Sam.

"Alright," the tallest of them said with a 'now that that's settled' rub of his hands, "let's give the archangel what he wants."

XxxxxxxXxxxxxxXxxxxxxXxxxxxxXxxxxx

The dinner went better than expected, being prefaced by Michael _not_ throwing a fit over the mere **suggestion** of even just his vessel having to sit in something as demeaning as a 'bag of beans'. Followed by Dean also not throwing a fit over there being 'proper chairs' in his homicidally bent archangel shared quarters.

Both phenomena being quite the relief to a Sam who was trying his best to make things more livable and comfortable for the archangel inhabited brother he was successfully keeping alive.  
A brother with whom he was playing _checkers_ against until the memory of having his 'ass kicked' twice in a row by someone he'd thought he was **better** than wasn't quite so fresh. Even if that _was_ a little petty of him.

Still, Dean had smiled when he'd realized which board game Sam'd brought in for a little after dinner entertainment. No doubt guessing exactly what was on his brother's mind.  
Sam appreciated the attempt at maturity when the guy didn't outright laugh about it. Only needing to shoot him a 'you got something to say?' look when the snickering got too loud to ignore.

So, thankful for small miracles, Sam made the first move and enjoyed eking out a victory about the time that same pathetic candle they'd been using earlier finally gave up the ghost for good.  
Then, in the barely darker darkness of his Room, Dean helped collect every single piece back into their little plastic containers and promised he was good for the night. A residual smirk still stuck to his face over the whole affair.

Sam, doing his best to forgive the guy his fun, gathered up the two stacking chairs and the checkers setup and said goodnight. Glad that the day's activities were agreeing with _someone_.

And grateful for the opportunity to get to know his brother that little bit better. Even if knowing Dean was _that_ good at both deception and **Sam's** favorite board game was more than a little bit... disturbing.

**Well, guess the family business is just plain gonna have to include interior design.  
But seriously, sorry about the unexpected hiatus, y'all! A friend challenged me to an unrelated ****One-Punch Man writing prompt and I just couldn't say no. Heh heh.****  
****No worries though, as next chapter is coming along nicely and will feature the poor, tragically separated duo of Dean and Cas! :D **


	18. How About Lunch?

**Cas and Dean have a little time to chitchat.**  
**Mostly because Michael doesn't seem to like associating with the angel.**  
**But also because he's still refusing to eat.**

After a several day trial period wherein they took turns visiting both Michael and Dean, bringing in chairs to sit on which they then took back out with them, it was decided that Michael's seating 'weapon of choice' would be a new permanent installation. So long as he proved he deserved it, of course.

And so far, over a week since, there had been no indication of aggression nor any reports of violence from any visitor, nor did Michael's chair show any signs of having been tampered with. So everyone was hopeful that the temperamental archangel was going to keep to his word and continue his time in the Room with aplomb and dignity.  
Or, as much dignity as could be afforded him.

As it was, Cas'd liked the bean bags enough that when they'd finally respected Michael's wishes and removed them both from his quarters —so they would 'offend his eyes no longer'—, he'd relocated them to his room. And, though rather saddened by his heavenly relation's staunch rejection of them, Castiel was at least pleased to say the things weren't going to waste.

It also helped to know that the new chairs weren't going to waste either, Michael having been seen sitting in them quite a few times over the past week. Smug look on his face anytime he caught someone staring.

Looking forward to catching said smug look for himself, Cas had been sure to be stood before that Ma'lak door with lunch tray in hands earlier than Michael was used to. Hoping to catch the archangel unawares.

"Ready?" Asked a Sam standing just to one side, holding a necklace of enchanted keys and waiting for his signal to use them.

The angel nodded his readiness and Sam opened the metal port, offering a reassuring nod of his own as he did.

Then, with not a hint of misgivings, the angel slipped through the sparingly opened space. Eyes quick to find the figure who looked as if he might have just been pacing the perimeter of his Room, stopping on the far side only for the interruption of the lunchtime intrusion.

"Hello, Michael," Cas greeted, tone genial as the door was locked and barred behind him. "I have brought with me a meal favored by your-"

"Save your breath, _Castiel_," the archangel cut in, spitting the name as if it were as tasteless as an over-chewed piece of gum, "I grow weary of your incessant nagging."

"But... those were the first words we've exchanged in-"

"Yes, and it was far too soon for either of our liking, I'm sure," Michael said with an obvious terse overtone.

"I can come back later if you'd-"

"It is no matter," the prisoner said with a raise of one hand, "you are already here and my vessel requires nourishment. Good day."

Then Michael was gone and with no more warning than that, Dean was standing along the rear wall of the Room, expression ever so slightly lost until he picked out the visitor depositing a platter on the softest piece of his dining set.

How Sam's Apocalypse World 'crew' had found such a soft table, Cas still wasn't sure. Though, he had a feeling that 'table' wasn't part of the cushioned surface's original intended purpose. Though he _was_ sure that the piece wasn't some strange, oversized ottoman. Seeing as Michael had only allowed that particular piece of furniture until a suitable replacement could be located.

Though, as Mary had pointed out to him, 'allowed' was an overly generous way of putting it.

"Hello, Dean," Cas restarted, more warmth in the greeting the second time. "I have brought you one of your favorite meals: a cheeseburger, hold nothing; an order of fries, ketchup on the side; and a chocolate milkshake, malted."

It took Dean a moment to respond, enraptured as he was by the sight before him, and when he did, his eyes were wide with wonder.  
"But the nearest burger joint's-"

"I felt like a drive," Cas informed, small smile forming when he caught his friend's unconscious lick of the lips. Glad to see the man's appetite was right on time.

"Are those fries _steaming_?" Dean asked, squinting to better perceive the waft of heat against the low light of his recently 'installed' reading candles.

"Yes, but I can't keep it fresh any longer," Cas informed with a regretful nod. "The Room bars me from exerting my heavenly-"

"Say no more," Dean insisted as he took eager, unrestrained steps forward. Perhaps realizing that mid-meal was potentially the most unlikely time Michael might take back control. Perhaps simply forgetting, in his excitement, that he was not yet bound by enchanted iron.

Either way, Cas's smile widened at the sight as it allowed him to fool himself, just for a moment, that his best friend wasn't living a life trapped between two cages: his own body, and the Room he'd helped build to contain the second soul inhabiting it.

The way Dean plopped down into his chair and **immediately** started on his perfectly preserved burger... the angel could only watch and wish that the man looked that contented and _passionate_ all the time.  
Alas, such was an untenable dream when one lived their every waking hour in confinement.

"This is a damn good burger," the words that broke Cas from his somber reflections.

"You're nearly finished?" The food bearer asked with an incredulous blink.

"Like I said, damn good burger."

"Well, 'damn good'-ness aside, I don't think I've ever seen you eat _anything_ that quickly," Cas observed. Brows raised in concern for the hunter's windpipe, if not stomach.

"_You_ try going months without a decent artery clogger," Dean challenged, directly before going for another hearty mouthful.

"Fair point," Cas allowed. Brows lowering to more of an impressed position. Then resuming their previous perch when his friend didn't pause to swallow _before_ attacking his milkshake.

Feeling that his friend was sufficiently distracted by his meal, Castiel sneaked his way to a silent sit in the visitor's chair across from him. Close enough that any sudden move would no doubt remind Dean that the angel was blissfully remiss in his duty as guard.  
Thankfully, Dean finished off the burger and fries and slurped down every last creamy drop of his milkshake without even one look spared the angel smiling at him from the other side of the table.

Setting the waxed paper drink cup down with an appreciative sigh, the hunter leaned back in his chair and patted his middle.  
"Now _that_ was good eatin'."

"I'm glad you liked it," Cas said with just a hint of marvel.

"You kidding? After that 'Cobb salad' Sam tried to murder me with?"

"Ah. Yes," Cas said, suddenly fully understanding how Dean had managed to polish off his meal with such gusto. "I advised against that myself, but the argument that 'greens are good for you' won the popular vote in the end."

"Yeah, well don't let it _go_ to a vote next time," the very satisfied hunter said as he arranged the evidence of his meal back onto the tray. Scraps of paper crumpled exactly the way he'd always left them.

"I'll do my best," Cas promised. "Though, I hold only about a thirty percent sway among the kitchen staff."

"Play dirty."

"You mean, sabotage the greens?"

"All's fair in Kitchen Wars," Dean said with a shrug, followed by a conspiratorial raise of one eyebrow.

"I've no intention of starting a war," Cas admonished, conspiratorial look springing to his face against his better judgement.

"All the best wars are fought with good intentions," said as the man with obvious designs to incite civil unrest pushed the food tray across to his new recruit. Still seeming not to notice the way that his hands weren't shackled together.

"I don't think that's how the saying goes," the angel offered after a thoughtful moment.

"Eh, tomaytoe; tomahtoe," Dean insisted with a shrug.

"In fact, I don't think that resembled _any_ sayings regarding wars that I've ever heard. Nor good intentions, for that matter," Cas informed, pensiveness no doubt reaching his face.

"Still true," Dean said in a rather 'you're no fun' tone.

"Perhaps," came the rather unsure response.

"Sounds like you've been hangin' out with Sam too long," Dean said with a disappointed shake of his head.

"I should think that the presence of your mother would negate any 'wet blanket' influence your brother might have on me," the angel argued, enjoying the chuckle it won him.

"Good ol' Mom," Dean agreed easily. "She keepin' you two out of trouble?"

"I'm not sure what kind of trouble we could possibly find _in_ the bunker," Cas pointed out, brow scrunched as he tried to think it through.

"Figure of speech, Cas. And there's _plenty_ trouble to get up to around here. I'd know," the hunter who'd just filled up on a meal worthy of his large frame intoned. Eyebrows hiking in something resembling... **knowledge**.

At which, Cas gave a start and reached into his coat pocket. "Speaking of trouble, I almost forgot," he said as he retrieved a small paper box from within. Lifting it above the table with just a hint of dramatic flourish. "They also had rhubarb."

For a moment, it seemed that Dean was stunned speechless. Eyes stuck scouring the proffered paper shrouded pastry as if afraid it might be some sort of illusion.  
The moment passed though and when the hunter turned wide eyes back to his angel's, it was without any indication of joking nor hint of artifice that he spoke the words that surprised a laugh from the soon-to-be culinary saboteur.  
"I love you."

"I love you too, Dean," the angel reciprocated easily. A warm chuckle caught pleasantly somewhere deep in his chest as he passed the package over to hands that practically vibrated as the man who belonged to them forgot his own rule regarding being handed things.  
Cas had to hide his smile when he felt the brush of familiar, though perhaps somewhat softer than they had been, callouses against the back of his hand. A moment before Dean was popping open the little package and giving the contents a reverent sniff. And only a moment before the sniff was cut short and far more critical eyes were set upon the delicacy. Then turned to bore into Cas's when the angel made an unconscious noise of realization.

"You spoil him, Castiel," the intruding archangel accused, expression as guarded as it was... searching.

"It's no more than he deserves," Cas found himself saying, tone far closer to defensive than he'd have thought. "And, were you amenable, I wouldn't mind explaining some of the reasons _why_-"

"Don't," Michael demanded, face suddenly all harsh lines with a voice to match. "Your flirtations with this simplistic, food motivated human do not concern me, milksop."

"Milksop?" Cas whispered to himself, unsure what he'd done to deserve such a strange designation.

"My vessel has eaten, so make haste," the archangel tacked on, not softening from his near bristling carriage one degree. "I grow weary of your pitying presence."

And before Castiel could attempt to reason with the embittered archangel, Michael had once again retreated from the Room and Dean was back to enjoying the apparently intoxicating aroma of his plant derived dessert. Oblivious of the conversation that had left his visitor feeling both rejected and vaguely threatened.

"Health freaks put up a fight over this?" Dean asked with another one of his conspiratorial expressions, even as he raised the sumptuous dessert out of the paper container and up to his eager lips.

"They don't know about it. It was in my pocket the entire time," Cas admitted feeling absolutely no guilt nor remorse for his secretive ways. "Besides, no matter what Sam says, _I_ think you're still a little underweight. The extra calories will help you maintain your physique."

"I like the sound of that," said the man with nearly half a slice of rhubarb in his mouth. Somehow managing to sound _barely _less intelligible than usual.

"I hoped you might," the angel admitted as he pushed all other matters from his mind, doing his best to commit to memory the look of sheer bliss that overtook his best friend's face as a second bite was added to his mouthful.  
When Dean noticed the angel's attentive gaze though, his carefree expression morphed to one of light self-consciousness.

"You want some?" The hunter with the overfull mouth asked. Tellingly _not_ moving to bring the remainder of his pie closer to the guest seated on the other side of the table.

"Thank you, but I don't want to 'spoil my dinner', as your mother puts it." The look of utter relief at his declination made Cas's private smile all the fonder.

But, as his friend finished the last of his pie, Cas remembered the warning Michael had issued and so excused himself as quickly as he could. Saying something about Sam needing him on coordination for the day as he stood from his chair. Sure to hide the paper pie container back in his pocket before gathering up the food tray and wishing Dean a good afternoon.  
Resisting the _strong_ urge to retake his seat when the man he was leaving behind bade him an ever so slightly forlorn, "See ya 'round, Cas. Thanks for the food."

As the door made its unlocking noises, Cas turned back to the picture of a seemingly cheery lone hunter sitting at a table for two and somehow dredged up a genuine smile .  
"It was my pleasure."

And the angel's smile solidified when a slight, candlelit blush proved that his best friend **believed** him.

**Michael really doesn't understand the concept of 'manners', does he? Too bad poor Cas had to suffer through his bad mood! At least his visit was a good one otherwise!**


	19. Uh-Oh

**Cas comes down with a touch of the introspection. Poor guy.**

Mary and Sam had enough on their plates as it was. That was why Cas, though perturbed by the development, had kept to himself the fact that he was slowly but steadily growing more and more ill at ease with every visit allotted him and his best friend. No matter how pleasant.

The person he **absolutely** hadn't bothered with that though was the one concerning whom all of his swirling, sinking, sullen feelings were felt. After all, it wasn't Dean's fault that angels were created to _protect_ humanity; not to watch it languish in self imposed exile while another being threatened to use it to wreak havoc and destruction upon the remainder of the world.

He knew logically that he was being dramatic and that Dean had _chosen_ this for himself and that the two of them were so much more than lucky to be **able** to visit and chat and share the occasional meal, but Castiel couldn't help it.  
He could feel his own spirit bending and bowing under the weight of his responsibilities. Under the oppressive weight of those Enochian sigils in that Room that became harder and harder to enter every time Sam unlocked it for him. And harder and harder to leave again once he'd seen how well the man with whom he shared a profound bond had adapted to his new, potentially permanent life.

Biting back a sigh, Cas turned from the containment chamber and the sight of that most hated of prisons, knowing that he shouldn't allow himself to linger in the doorway, staring like a faithful hound missing its human charge. It wasn't becoming of an angel of the Lord.  
...And if Dean ever knew that he'd developed the habit, the poor man would blame himself for every minute Cas had ever stood forlorn and fearful. Wishing- _Praying_ for an innocent's freedom.

With a last look backwards, Cas took off for what it was he was _supposed_ to be doing with his morning, shaking his head in an attempt at dispelling the clinging, crawling sense that something was very, **very** wrong in their little, secluded piece of heaven.

Having been told more than once that he wore his emotions 'on his sleeve', and that he was a terrible liar, he was always sure to give himself a moment between... _feeling_, and joining either at large Winchester. They were purportedly quite good at reading facial expressions and body language, and the last thing Cas wanted was to cause the two of them any more worry than they were already living every minute of every day with. What with all the trouble Michael had caused both their world and his own. And what a handful he'd been since his incarceration. How many times he'd...

Hm. Come to think of it, Cas thought with a glance spared back down the corridor he was following, Michael had not thrown a fit, nor made untenable demands of them, nor threatened to dismember any member of their group in... an uncharacteristic stretch of time.

Against his most ardent wishes, Castiel entered the dining quarters in a state of befuddlement. Brow furrowed deep and shoulders hunched in concentration.

"What's the matter, Castiel? Is it Dean?" Asked the mother of the two humans in the world the angel was closest to.

"Yes- _No_," he corrected, before anybody could jump from their comfy seat at the eating table. "Dean is fine," he assured at the twin looks of puzzlement.  
Then, with a sigh, the angel joined the hunters and attempted to order his jumbled thoughts.

"Something about Michael, then?" Sam asked, ever concerned voice going taut around the edges.

Castiel grimaced at the astute query, knowing that there was no 'good' way to tackle this particular subject matter. Especially when Mary, a concerned parent, was present. So he decided to start with a little contextual perspective.  
"Michael has been letting Dean out for all things human, mundane, and tedious and he has been doing so without a fight." At the slow but earnest nods, the angel continued. "I am concerned that Michael's behavior, as flawless as it has been of late, may be indicative of some far more sinister plot."

"Wait, so you're saying, based on too much _good behavior_, you think Michael's going to make a break for it?" Sam asked, face wrinkled in dismay.

"I'm saying I think things have been going a little too good to be true and that, sooner or later, something's going to give," the angel confirmed with a heavy purse of his lips.

"Huh, I hadn't thought much of it," started Mary, expression pinched, "but Michael stopped peaking out to give me the stink eye every time I come around."

"He does that with you too?" Sam asked, face reminiscent of incredulity.

"I thought he only sniped insults at me during our visits," Cas said half to himself as the other hunters exchanged a worried glance.  
"Did this behavior stop for you in the last few days?" He asked as he felt his pulse push itself a hair above its standard resting pace.

"Yeah, I was surprised but Dean and me got through a whole game of chess the other day without even one insult from Michael," Sam said. As if not being insulted were a wholly impressive feat in and of itself.

"Same," Mary pitched in, eyebrows drawn, "he hasn't popped out to basically threaten me in... three days?"

The unsure measure of time did nothing to calm Castiel's mind as more and more of his worries seemed to line themselves up out in the open.  
"This may be more imminent than I feared," Cas said as he tried to keep his heart from beating any harder than it already was. "I think that Michael may be purposefully avoiding the use of his grace and associated divine powers. I think that he is saving up his 'juice' for- for..."

"For something big," Sam finished for him when Cas found himself stumped.

"But what could he possibly hope to accomplish by saving up a little energy here and there? What's he gonna do while he's trapped inside that box you three built?" Mary asked with a rather angered gesture. No doubt frustrated by the sensitive nature of the topic.

"It's true, his powers can have absolutely no effect against another nor even the Room itself; the warding is as thorough as it _can_ be," Castiel affirmed. "Truth be told, I pray that I'm blowing any possible negative outcomes out of proportion, but I have a feeling that-"

Cas's eyes widened a moment before Mary and Sam's. All three in reaction to a strange rumbling tremor that struck through the room and rattled the hearts in their very chests, somehow defying the quake's own barely perceptible nature.  
The accompanying whine, high as a low quality dog whistle and heard just as faintly, brought the hunters to their feet.

With a shared look of mounting terror, the group vacated their luncheon and made for the only destination any of the three could think to go.

"The Room's intact," Sam observed as he skidded to a stop just inside the containment chamber.

"If it's fine, then what made that horrible noise?" Mary asked as she moved to visually clear the chamber of hidden threats. "Sounded like... like a smiting," she said as she finished her sweep. "I'd know; I heard a **lot** of them back on Apocalypse World."

"A-are you saying that an _angel_ just **smote** inside that- that..."

"Yes," Cas confirmed, hating the way Sam's voice had shook. And the way his very nearly did in return. "Your mother is right, that was indeed the resonance of a smiting. An _arch_angel's smiting, to be precise."

"But if he's alone in there and he _knows_ his powers **can't** break him out, then what did he hit?" Mary asked, voice and face each a matching shade of dread by the end.

"Were it to be directed inward... the possibility _does_ exist that an effective smiting could be enacted," Cas admitted, glued to the spot as he watched both hunter's faces pale before his eyes.

"...Dean's hurt?" Sam asked, gaze glued to the harsh silhouette of that most foreboding of doors.

"Judging solely by the strength of the shockwave? Badly." The only prediction Cas could fight past his gritting teeth. Not allowing himself to contemplate the sole alternative if he was wrong.

"Then what are we waiting for?" The youngest Winchester demanded as he tore at his shirt collar, liberating his necklace with a desperate sort of determination as he launched himself forward to wrench that blast proof door wide open. Then remembering safety protocol at the last, Sam snapped the port shut just as Cas found himself inside the space.

A space usually so devoid of the sort of miracles that clung to Enochian kind like peanut butter to jelly that it felt _more_ mundane than the rest of the world, but which now **reeked** of an ancient, cosmic version of that smell humans knew as 'ozone'. Colored by an ever abiding overtone of righteous fury. Itself tempered with the sickeningly sweet clawing and cloying undertone of death.

The hunter forced himself to put one foot in front of the other as he gathered his reeling senses, barely able to tell up from down for the utter darkness of the Room. Michael no doubt having once again allowed the candles to either burn down or snuff out. Arguing that an archangel would never allow themself to rely on anything so primordial as 'fire'.

One more cautious, halting step though and the toe of his leading shoe caught against something heavy. Something heavy and human shaped and sprawled across approximately six feet of open floor.

Cas fell to his knees, hands trembling as they skittered for both the diaphragm and closest pulse point of the friend he'd nearly stumbled over in his haste. A friend he hadn't sensed the presence of until- _still_ wasn't sensing the presence of even as he found evidence of life in the form of a heartbeat. Followed close by an exhale that just managed to warm the ear he'd near pushed flush against Dean's mouth in an attempt to hear... anything.

"Thank God," the angel managed as he **willed** himself not to fall to pieces. Relief threatening to overwhelm all of his blunted senses in one fell swoop.  
"Dean?" He asked, _knowing_ there would be no response. "Michael?" He asked with just as little hope.

Refusing to be victim to the stark and desperate hopelessness of his surroundings a single, terrifying moment longer, Castiel pushed against the Room's wardings with far more force than he'd thought possible for an angel of his lowly station. Winning a single, unobstructed glimpse of his friend's —as well as his heavenly relation's— condition. Reeling back on his haunches as both the crushing weight of those formidable wardings and that of his assessment hit him full on.

Without another moment spared, Cas yanked his own body to its feet and made for the door, determination in every move even as he bade Sam release him.

Once outside though, not bothering to shut the door behind him, Cas felt his shoulders drop as he looked the Winchester family in the frazzled faces and realized that he had no idea how to tell them what he'd just seen. No matter the situation's urgent nature.

"How is-"

"Dean's alright, right, Cas? Or-or you can heal him if he isn't?" Sam cut in, grabbing his mother's closer shoulder in a bid for support. For himself at least as much as for her.

"Dean is not in a good way," the angel said with a cringe, eyes almost refusing to meet the others' at how radical an understatement he'd managed.

"I thought," started a Sam whose darkening expression could only be described as 'lost'. "I thought Michael was..."

"Well, apparently, he _wasn't_," Cas refuted, feeling a sudden flash of anger at the painful position the archangel had put them in. Ashamed when he realized he'd allowed the emotion to reach his voice as well.  
Regrouping, he straightened his shoulders and started over. "I can't heal him unless we remove him from this hellhole," he said with a gesture behind himself. "The warding is too powerful."

"But what if it's all part of Michael's escape plan? You said yourself he might try something," Mary said, voice calm though her hand visibly shook as it came to rest on Sam's high shoulder. Mirroring the one he hadn't removed from hers. "We take him out of there; he'll find a way to get loose and wipe out half of Lebanon with his _pinkie_."

"How bad is it, Cas?" Sam asked, voice barely above a strangled whisper .

"If Dean is to survive... we must move them. There is no other way."

For one tense moment, the reality of Cas's statement hung in the air like a thick smog, threatening to choke the breath from every lung as it clung to clammy skin and stung the eyes.  
Until the senior member of their group broke the spell with a tight clear of her throat.

"Alright then," Mary said as she stepped forward and laid a hand on Castiel's arm. A gesture which surprised the angel. More used to an aloof sort of affection from the woman; not so much the outward and familial one's she reserved for her grown children.  
Then, with a small, almost steady smile, the intuitive hunter turned to her healthy son and spake, "Sam, grab a rattle can; break out the lamb's blood. We have some work to do."

"Medbay, got it!" Sam said as he turned and took off at a run.

"We'll ward a stretcher and be back here with it asap," Mary assured as she backed from the chamber, not able to tear her eyes from the sight of the Room left so carelessly ajar.

"I'll stay with Dean and await your return," Cas assured as the mother slipped from his sight, leaving behind not but the sound of feet pounding against a hard, indifferent floor.

**I think I was nervous about this particular chapter. I'm so sorry if that had something to do with the three month hiatus! Also: Sorry about the three month hiatus!**  
**I genuinely hope that you've all had a wonderful summer and that this update helped make your day that special little bit better!**


	20. Triage

**Whoa. That wasn't supposed to happen.**

Cas found himself broken from his listless stare by the scrape of fast approaching boots. The rattled angel looking up from his hunched crouch just as a warded and ready stretcher was laid across from him, along the line of his best friend's unmoving form.

Within moments, by the sure and quick efforts of Sam and Mary, Dean was in the stretcher and covered with a sheet painted in complimentary sigils. Then the party, laden with their injured member, was out the Room and well on their way to the chamber designated as 'medbay'. Cas simply doing his best to keep up with the Winchesters as they moved along at an eerily coordinated half run.

There, out in the light of the bunker's hallways, it was far too easy to see the frail condition of his friend. How pale he was from his extended time hidden away from any form of sunlight; the unnatural pallor accentuating the nascent bruises turning nearly one half of Dean's face a livid mess of greens and purples. The corresponding eye swelling visibly even as they hurried through the halls.  
And though Cas knew there was nothing he could do for his friend until they reached their destination, the angel couldn't bring himself to look away.

No one spoke. Not a sound but that of hurried motion was made as the hunters bore their injured member through a large doorway and into their medical ward, where the mother and son led the way into an enclosure of privacy screens, dispensing their relation with the greatest of care onto the waiting bed within.

How the two had managed to erect such a thing —let alone mark its interior with every containment sigil known to Enochian kind— in such a short time, Castiel would never know.

Taking his place in the thoroughly warded space, the angel offered a nod to each hunter in turn, took a fortifying breath, and bent to his task. Laying divine hands upon the battered and broken body before him.

After a time, he was reminded of the others' presence by the scrape of a single shoe and the clearing of a large throat.

"Uh, so, how's it going, Cas? Are they-"

"Is Dean going to be alright?" Mary cut in, the thread of desperation just as obvious as it had been on her son's voice.

"It... it's slow work. Perhaps too slow," the angel said as he took a half step back and raked both hands through his hair and down his face. "I'm afraid that, for this to work, Michael and I both will require fewer restrictions against our divine powers. At least until I can get the internal bleeding under control."

"The _**what**_?!" The worried family demanded. In unison.

"As established earlier; Dean is not in a good way. And, it turns out, the two of you are _very_ good at angel-proofing," Cas informed, the attempt at levity understandably going underappreciated by the practically vibrating pair.  
"Um, if you would?"

At Castiel's gesture toward the medical tent's freshly painted walls, Sam and Mary lurched forward. Starting on the same foot and each going straight for the curtained dividers they'd so thoughtfully situated. Moving them back far enough that sections of the medical ward were visible between each freestanding privacy screen.

"Thank you," Cas said as he moved back to his battered friend's side, shoulders falling in relief as he was immediately able to make out the finer details of what was ailing Dean's insides.  
"Now, if you could please pull down the sheet?" He asked with a nod at the angry red sigil emblazoned upon the white cover. Meant to keep Michael from moving himself via miracle, but impeding the flow of Castiel's grace as well.

Immediately, two Winchesters descended upon either side of the bed, quickly though gingerly pulling back the cover and exposing Dean's upper half, before stepping back to resume their previous posts.

Once again sparing a nod to each harried hunter, the angel tuned out his surroundings and tunneled every available effort through his hands and toward the healing of his grievously injured friend. Relieved when his grace flowed virtually uninterrupted.

Within minutes though, Cas cursed himself for a fool, for as he surveyed the progress of his divine intervention, he was reminded just how diminished his angelic powers had grown these last years.  
Still, this was the absolute best —and perhaps only— chance that Dean and indeed Michael had. So, holding onto hope with gritted teeth, the angel soldiered on.

Another stretch of time passed and a clear of a large throat once again reminded Cas that there were others in the 'operating theater'.  
"Uh, ignore this if it's distracting, Cas, but I- uh, I can't stop thinking about it: Who was behind the wheel when this happened?"

Cas glanced up to meet Sam's troubled gaze before answering.  
"Michael," he said, trying not to let the strain of the situation show on his voice. "He couldn't have enacted such a strike from the recesses of Dean's consciousness. It would already have required his full concentration as it was."

After a moment of silence, Cas gave a relieved huff and moved his hands, having finally, successfully, cleaned up and repaired the hemorrhage of a severely traumatized liver.  
Then, before moving on to the rupture of a length of small intestine, the heavenly healer diverted his attention, just for a moment, to investigate that other matter which before Sam's mentioning, hadn't crossed his mind.

"Huh," all that Cas could afford to say before turning his efforts quickly back to his healing endeavors. Engrossing himself with pushing both bile and the occasional partially digested food particulate back whence it had come. Lest his patient lapse into some dangerous and wholly preventable form of toxic shock.

"'Huh'?" Sam asked, prompting the angel to expand upon his one word assessment.

"It's strange," Cas started, face scrunched in concentration. "Because he was 'behind the wheel', it stands to reason that Michael would be the one to take the brunt of the blow... but this feels somehow _more_ than that. Almost as if- but that would be ridiculous," he admonished, putting that last bit of his attention to coaxing the intestinal walls to mend just that last bit _faster_.

"What does that mean, Cas?" Sam demanded, body coiled tight in nervous concern.

"I can't be sure yet, but it feels like..." the angel paused as a glow lit up his eyes, the only outward evidence of his ever increasing angelic struggle. "If I'm not mistaken, Michael wasn't simply 'behind the wheel' at the time of his attack; he was swaddling Dean. Or, rather, Dean's _soul_."

"What? Like a baby?" Sam asked, face pure befuddlement.

"I think he means that Michael was _protecting_ Dean. Using himself like some sort of blanket or spirit shield. Right, Castiel?" Mary translated, voice every inch the worried mess of her uninjured son's.

"Yes, and it's a good thing that he did, because a human soul is resilient, but this blast that Michael premeditated was... powerful," Castiel was reluctant to inform. Taking a moment to breathe as the intestinal breach sealed to his satisfaction.

"Wait, so Dean's _soul_ is- is- It's okay, right, Cas? Or, it'll **be** okay, right?" The tallest in the room asked, face going worryingly pale as he gave his brother's unmoving form a desperate looking over.

"...His soul is one of the strongest I know," Cas started, hands moving to the other side of his patient's abdomen, breath sufficiently caught. "If anyone could come out of this 'okay', it would be Dean."

"That doesn't answer the question, Castiel," Mary pointed out, voice rough around the edges. "Is Dean's soul okay or not?"

The angel's eyes glowed with the enactment of another small miracle. After which, Dean's color improved to a noticeable degree. Some of the stark paleness being replaced by a hint of his natural, vivacious hue.  
"As we all know: Dean is resilient. I have no doubt in my mind that he, and his soul, _will_ be fine."

"...But?" Sam prompted with a less than patient nod.

"But even as protected as his soul was when Michael enacted his smiting," the angel paused once again as his hands hovered over his best friend's diaphragm, eyes glowing as he _willed_ fuller breath into the recumbent hunter. Then, only once Dean blessedly began to draw air in a manner resembling his natural rhythm did Cas glance up at his audience.  
"Dean's soul is, to put it in secular terms, bruised."

"That can happen?" Blurted Sam as he reached up and put a hand on his mother's shoulder. Which she reflexively covered with a hand of her own.

"It can. Though I've not seen it myself. Not in an age. And not within a human vessel- er, that is, I've never before seen a _human_ soul contused in this way," the angel explained, ignoring the small drop of sweat that rolled down the side of his head as he pushed against the remaining wardings in a bid for more divine leeway. Feeling more sweat bead at his hairline when the recalcitrant things pushed right on back.

"An _angel's_ soul then?" Sam asked.

"An angel, being a being of light, technically doesn't _have_ a soul. Though, in their true form, an angel and a human soul do bear some similarities," the healer clarified.

"So, an _angel_ then?" Mary asked, echoing her son as she watched Castiel work.

"Yes."

"..._And_?" Sam prompted.

"...And they recovered. For the most part."

"Oh my God," Mary let out as she turned from the scene and walked to dump herself in a visitor's chair.

"So, you don't actually have much to go on here, do you, Cas? Just faith and- and a hunch?"

"That is correct, Sam. I have faith in _Dean_ and a hunch that the most stubborn, tenacious soul **any** of us know is going to put in more effort than anyone rightly should to come back from this. To come back to _us_."

"Wait, he's _gone_?" Mary demanded, straightening in her chair.

"Until he's recovered, his soul will be... basically in a regenerative, catatonic state," Cas informed, moving to bring Dean's head into easy reach. Knowing he would need to see to the intracranial trauma as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

"Dean's _soul_ is in a _coma_?" The woman asked, eyes going wide as one hand gripped the arm of her chair.

"In a word? Yes."

"Oh, God," The Winchesters swore over each other, both losing some color as they did. Sam badly enough that his mother insisted he take a seat in the remaining visitor's chair. The old piece of furniture creaking miserably as he did.

The next half of an hour passed in a heavy, almost palpable silence, neither hunter willing to speak nor leave to speak, lest they break the angel's tireless concentration.

"Alright," announced a thoroughly wrung out Cas as he at long last straightened from the stoop he hadn't realized he'd contorted himself into, "the bleeding is staunched and the worst of the trauma has been diminished considerably. I expect Michael will wake naturally before any of us have processed... any of this."  
Then the exhausted angel looked around at the harried hunters collapsed in differing states of disarray and asked the only pertinent question at his disposal.  
"Who wants first watch?"

**Phew, it sure is a good thing Castiel knows what he's doing! Maybe, back in his garrison days, he was a bit of a medic as well as an elite soldier? Angels probably don't have to swear the Hippocratic oath after all!**


	21. Survivor's Guilt

**Sometimes we make mistakes. Sometimes we make miscalculations. Sometimes we do things we **know** we shouldn't.**  
**And sometimes, we just have to live with the consequences.**

The next time Michael opened his eyes, he wished he hadn't. For the action brought with it _sensation_, all of which as far from 'good' as he'd yet felt. Multiplied by three. At minimum.

As soon as the shock of it all settled well enough that he could _move_, the archangel screwed his eyes shut against the feeling of his vessel wanting desperately to divulge every single last drop of food or liquid it had ever, in its gluttonous life, taken in. Glad that the self imposed darkness also hid from his view the hideous picture of an Enochian emblazoned ceiling and the burning light of what must have been some sort of... lamp.  
Where the hell-

"Not quite how you were hoping that would turn out, huh, Michael?"

"Samuel," the archangel said, by way of acknowledgement. Dismayed when it came out nigh unintelligible.

"What the hell, man? I thought things were good- that _you_ were good. I mean, what the hell were you _thinking_?" Sam demanded, sounding as if he were keeping his outrage as private as possible.

"It got me out here, didn't it?" The heavenly being in the borrowed body pointed out. Tilting his head ever so slightly so as to look the Winchester in the face. Realizing as he did that only one of his eyes was functioning well enough to open more than a crack.

"Yeah, but at what cost? You literally almost died before we even got you out of there. **Seriously**, Michael, what were you thinking?" The hunter asked, more insistent the second time.

"I had half thought it would be enough to finish the job you and your softhearted family were too 'compassionate' to yourselves," the angel informed, tone as derisive as his throat would allow.

"What 'job'? What are you _talking_ about?" The eternal thorn in Michael's side demanded.

"_Me_. I'm the biggest threat to you and your family and everyone else's families **existences**. By the hunter handbook, you should have put me down well over a month ago. You're practically honor bound to it," the archangel explained, having to stop to catch his breath by the end.

"Look, since you have access to Dean's memories, you should already know that there are always exceptions to the rules. Like Garth and his family: friendly werewolves. And besides, wouldn't you rather... keep living, given the choice?"

Michael closed his eye against the trite argument, uninterested in the younger's hopes and far flung dreams. Growing instead increasingly occupied as his ribs and lungs and throat continued to fight against his ongoing efforts to regulate his breathing.

"Michael?" Came that ever persistent voice. Pleading as if the one he was wasting his breath on was somehow beholden to care.  
"C'mon, dude, we're not trying to 'end you' or a-anything like that. We just want what's best for, well, _honestly_, for Dean, but nobody's out for your blood, man."

"Were I only so naive," Michael retorted with a derisive scoff. Breath catching when the small but sudden contraction of his diaphragm caused an abused muscle along his side to pang with a sharpness that reminded him of being stabbed.

"C'mon, Michael, you said it yourself: that we should and _could_ have gotten rid of you over a month ago," the simpleton argued. Completely oblivious to Michael's attempts to keep composed and calm while a tearing, cramping crawled both up and down his side.  
"Michael?"

"Everything... hurts," the celestial being all but wheezed, finally exhaling as the terrible sensation began to dissipate. Then, just as he noticed the unfamiliar feeling of water leaking from the corner of his eye, so did Michael notice his 'visitor' flinch with surprise.

"Are you crying?" Sprang the incredulous question.

"What? Don't be ridicu-"

"Oh my God, you're- You're an archangel and you're _crying_." Blurted the brainless buffoon. Whose face sobered an instant later.  
"... How bad is it?"

"...I'm not sure I'll live," Michael admitted. Surprised he'd answered at all. Let alone truthfully.

"Cas said you're gonna be fine. A-after a few more healing sessions an-and some rest," the human insisted with the assistance of a bobbing nod.

"Your tone does not inspire confidence, Samuel," the archangel informed, further dismayed when he felt a trickle of something slimy slither out and down from one nostril.

"You'll see. When we get you back up to factory standards-"

"If."

"_When_, dude. The word's 'when'. You're sharing that body with my brother, remember? He and I? We don't give up on each other," the hunter said with far more conviction than Michael thought he'd yet heard from the lone cerebral member of the family Winchester.

"Even when possessed by an archangel?"

"Especially then. He didn't give up on me when I said yes to Lucifer, so-"

"You were possessed by _Lucifer_? And **_lived_**?"

"Heh, uh, _yeah_, that was, like, **forever** ago. How did you not know that?" Sam asked, sounding now far more entertained than Michael had ever heard him sound.

"As established over six weeks ago: I suppose your brother is good at _something_ after all."

"Secrets _are_ sort of his specialty," the giant said with a chuckle. Which Michael let fade away to silence before posing his next question.

"Are you putting me back in that 'Room'?" Michael asked, voice and face purposely devoid of emotion.

"...Are you going to do _this_ again if we do?" Sam asked, voice and face no doubt as serious as the hunter could make them.

After a slow swallow, thickened by a tang the flavor of which Michael vaguely recognized as human blood, he spoke his piece. "No matter how gilded, a bird who has tasted freedom will always attempt to escape its cage."

"I'll take that as a yes," the hunter with the narrowed eyes informed.

"I refuse to live like that any longer," Michael informed, feeling a flush of anger warm him from somewhere deep down.

"Well, you don't have much of a choice in the matter, because as long as you're possessing my brother, you're staying alive. And as long as you're alive, Dean wants you in that Room. For good reason."

"Then I choose death," said the archangel, wishing he could draw breath enough to give the statement the conviction it deserved.

"That's not an option," the Winchester said with a hand motion which spoke volumes about how much the current conversation displeased him.  
"Listen, we're still in progress making the place more of a home, alright? We're making more furniture; Cas almost has the lights figured out, he thinks; Mom- uh, _Mary's_ on top of the research side of things-"

"Research which _all_ parties pray will eventually lead to my expulsion from your beloved brother. At which point, I will either be left to rot in that prison you dare call a Room, or summarily put down like the rabid dog everyone thinks me." At the tremble in his ultimately human voice, Michael tamped down hard on his roiling emotions. Ashamed to be feeling them at all. Let alone betraying them through tears and tremors.

As he did that, the hunter by his bed averted his gaze and rubbed at his own stubbled face. Looking almost as if he too were attempting to dispel some unwanted swell of sentimentality.

Pathetic.

"I pose instead a third option," Michael said on his first truly calmed breath. Then, sure he had recaptured his babysitter's attention, he went on. "Bind my divine powers, find me an alternative vessel, and set me free."

"But Dean's your true vessel. The sword of Michael? You'd burn out anyone else within a-a matter of _months_. If you're careful," Sam admonished, looking like he might want to grab the archangel by the shoulders and shake him. Something said archangel knew the stilt of a man didn't have the nerve for.

"If my powers are truly blunted, I won't need my sword," Michael reasoned. "Besides, I am not so reckless with my vessels as you so obviously think me." The responding disbelieving look reminding succinctly why it was he so disliked Samuel. "Except, perhaps, with this particular gambit," he 'corrected' with a spared glance down at the battered vessel in question. A genetically engineered weapon which, on his world, his heavenly brethren had failed to create for him. And which, in this parallel dimension, had turned out **far** more trouble than it was worth.

"You're not kidding, are you?" The least dull member of the family Winchester asked. Face tilting toward incredulous.

"Have you ever known me to 'kid'?" Michael asked, every spare drop of venom infusing his rhetorical statement.

"Huh," the only thing the simpleton said for an awkward, overly _long_ moment. Before looking the archangel in the good eye once more. "You might be right about this. I'll have to run it by Cas, and Mo-Mary, but we've actually done something like this before."

"Hooray for you," Michael said as he reverted his gaze to the ceiling, rather turned off by the Winchester's sudden over-enthusiasm.

"I'm serious," began the half-indignant defense. "_Years_ ago, Ruby —a sort-of friend of ours— needed a vessel so she could help us out with... some stuff, so we helped her find one that wasn't being used by the original owner and-"

"I'm not familiar with this 'Ruby'," Michael said, happy to cut off the tedious recount.

"How could you be? You're from another dimension," said the man who thought he'd just pointed out a glaring hole in a higher intelligence's reasoning.

"Because our earths are perfect copies of each other _and_ because every angel knows —or, in the very least, knows **of**— every other angel. It's the way of it," Michael informed with a sneer. "We're all related, and I don't know any 'Ruby'."

"Well, Ruby wasn't exactly a-an angel... per se."

"Come again?" Michael demanded of the stuttering plebeian.

"She was kind of... the opposite?" Informed the glorified shaven monkey, with an unbecoming cringe.

"What?"

Wordlessly, the Winchester raised one hand high enough so that it could be seen without issue, then, with one unnaturally long finger, pointed to the floor. Looking uncomfortable as he-

"A **demon**?! You _dare_ lump me in with that _**filth**_?" Michael demanded, head spinning just a hair with the effort his outrage had taken to express.

"Uh, yeah, 'that filth' helped us save the _world_, so I can think of worse you could be 'lumped in with'," the gangly hunter informed with an enraging half smirk.

"And I can think of **many** ways I could maim you where you sit," Michael growled, realizing with a sense of disappointment that it lacked most the bravado necessary to come across as satisfactorily intimidating.

"And _that's_ the kind of talk that gets you the cuffs," Samuel The Sinner said as he raised the damnable things by one ring, dangling links glinting in obvious taunt.

The archangel glared in response, wishing he could access but a fraction of his potential so that he could wipe that stupid expression clean off-

"You promise to behave if I don't put these on?" The peon with the long hair prompted.

"I 'promise' not to maim anyone," Michael **grudgingly** allowed, blood simmering enough to warm his vessel ever so slightly.

"Good enough for now," said the extortionist as he stowed the offending tool of bondage with a raise of one brow.  
"So, I'll run this past Cas and we'll get back to you on the efficacy and logistics of finding you a suitable alternative long-term vessel."

"Ooh, look who knows a four syllable word," Michael couldn't help but jab.

"Uh, right... get some rest, Michael. Sounds like you need it."

The way the dolt looked at him as he got up from his chair and left the sigil encrusted, cloth walled medical room, face a mix of confusion and dismay, was a welcome improvement over any of his earlier expressions. Still annoying, but an improvement nonetheless.

So, with some small sense of victory, the archangel reminded himself that the disturbing _persistent_ pains of his vessel were indeed not sign of an impending and agonizing death, but in fact a temporary step on his virtually powerless road to recovery. Then, comforted by his reasoning, he closed his eye in a bid for contemplative quiet. Pleased when it went uninterrupted for quite some time.

**Wow. Give me freedom or give me death? That's pretty metal of Michael. But considering he just smote himself and all, I'd take the request seriously!**


	22. Healing Is Hard

**Mary gets just a pinch sidetracked when she tries to check on Dean.**  
**This particular side track turns out a little more than Mary'd bargained for.**

Mary'd slept, but barely. Too caught up in terrible thoughts of how life would be if she never got to hear her oldest son's goofy laugh again. Or how hard it would be on both Sam _and_ Castiel If they never got teased by their best friend again. Their best friend who they'd spent the better part of the last forty and ten years with, respectively. _Living_ the family business she'd hoped to keep her boys out of.  
The family business she'd left behind for their sake.

Yeah, so Mary'd slept, but she wasn't rested. And she **definitely** didn't feel like trying for any more of that hard won 'rest'. Not while her kid was fighting for his life- for his _soul_ in the next room.  
Well, in the room a few hallways down, anyway.

Semantics aside, Mary was worried. And she was going to do something about it. In the form of a visit. So she could see with her own eyes that her baby- her Dean... was doing all right.

"You _are_ out of your mind, aren't you?" The question that stopped Mary on a heel, right outside the medical ward. Having come from a distinctly 'Dean' sounding throat. "If you think you can get me to- to **degrade** myself for your enjoyment!"

Right. _Not_ Dean, Mary thought as she let the rest of her foot down. Deciding she better figure out what was going on in there before barging in.

"There is nothing 'degrading' about eating, Michael," came the gravelly voice of Castiel, the angel Mary'd forgotten had volunteered himself for second watch, sounding as if he were attempting to sooth a frightened calf.

"Then _you_ eat that horrid-"

"I've already eaten," the calm one of the two cut in. "Besides, I prepared this serving with you in mind and-"

"And so it's poisoned? Pass."

"It is not- Fine." A sigh, then the sound of a spoon ladling up liquid, followed by a purposefully loud swallow, passed before Castiel spoke again. "Are you now convinced that I'm not trying to kill you?"

"...You're simply okay with dying if it takes _me_ out of the picture," came one of the strangest arguments Mary had ever heard. Causing the hunter to sneak just the smallest bit closer to the doorway, not wanting to miss a word of the follow-up.

"Michael, right now, one of the best things you can do for your health is eat. I'll not have you jeopardize your own life as well as the life of my-"

"Of your precious _human_?" The angel with a serious God complex interrupted.

"Yes, Dean _is_ precious to me. And, though considerably less so, you too have grown precious to me, brother." Mary couldn't help but blink at that. For the frankness of it if nothing else. "So if there is anything I can do to help ease your or Dean's suffering, I will not allow for you to stand in my way."

"...I've no _inkling_ as to how that steaming **petri dish** would qualify," the archangel complained, sounding kinda huffy for a divine being.

"This is called 'soup' and it's 'good for what ailes ya'. Or at least, that's what I've been led to believe," informed the non-arch angel Mary was suddenly convinced might actually even _care_ about his heavenly counter part. If 'considerably less so' than he did her oldest son.

"You are the most infuriating denizen of Heaven I have ever shared air with," came the rather resigned reply.

Wow. Weird way to say you didn't like someone. Missing a lot of that bite Mary was used to hearing from the archangel.

"Yes, while that may be," started the angel playing the part of caretaker, "I've heard far worse. Now open your mouth and stop talking. Soup is... tricky."

Then followed a silence which Mary was sure to breathe shallow for, not interested in accidentally interrupting the two.

"Too many chunks to drink; too much broth to chew: Tricky," Castiel explained, sounding confused himself.

"And yet these humans survive," Michael countered. Plainly.

"Yes. They are more resourceful than you give them credit for. Now, stop delaying the inevitable; open up." Then a moment went by wherein Mary heard the scrap of a spoon's stainless steel against the ceramic of a porcelain soup bowl. Or maybe mug.

"Ugh, it tastes like a chicken put to boil!" Michael contested after what sounded like a cautious sip being taken.

"That is essentially how chicken soup is made," admitted Castiel, sounding both slightly impressed and understandably dismayed.

"I hope the disease ridden feathers were at least removed first?" Demanded the archangel who sounded like he didn't have it in him for much more excitement. The anger petering from his voice at a pleasant though uncharacteristic rate.

"Oh, a chicken is never cooked with its feathers intact. Those are removed, dyed fanciful colors, and then used for children's arts and crafts," stated the angel who it seemed _almost_ had a grasp on how such things worked.  
"Now, here comes the spoon. Again."

At that, Mary turned and started a silent retreat, lip stuck tight between her teeth in a valiant attempt to keep a sudden and bubbling laughter inside until she reached a safe 'not being heard by angels' distance.

Before long, Mary found herself in a book lined study, doubled over in almost painful laughter, tears welling in the corners of her eyes. All at the thought of Castiel, an unbelievably powerful heavenly being, _spoon feeding_ an even **more** powerful heavenly being.

That little exchange, thought Mary with a settling sigh, had without a doubt been one of the funniest things she'd heard in her everloving life. And, while it made her sad to think of how good a time Castiel would be having if Dean were the one he was currently **spoon feeding**, she was at least glad the two angelic 'brothers' seemed to be getting along. Sort of.

So, feeling _pretty_ reassured no one was dying anytime soon, Mary wiped the moisture from her eyes and took off for the kitchen. Wondering if she'd find evidence of their resident hunter-angel's cooking skills cooling in a pot on an otherwise immaculate stovetop.

**Everybody's gotta eat. Some are just happier about it than others. XD**  
**Next chapter will feature some tears, some fears, a well fed archangel, and a glimpse at a rare Bearded Sam!**  
**Until then, Happy Hunting!**


	23. Black And Blue

**As Mary proved on her little excursion, it's been hard for Team Free Will to do anything but catch a nap and worry.**  
**Here we find an unrested Sam on watch once again. Only this time, someone unexpected is here for a visit.**

Dean had no idea how long he'd been staring at the ceiling, but at some point he became aware of it.

He woke up. And for a while, that was it. Nothing else.

Eventually though, his mind started to... move. Started to pick up on things. Things that shouldn't have been. Things that should have been. And things that simply were.

Like the fact that he was lying in a bed. A thick sheet pulled up to his chin, almost as if protecting him from the cold.  
Except that his head didn't feel cold. It felt... wrong. But not in a cold way. More like, in a 'is this mine?' way.

After a little more staring at the ceiling, Dean realized that it wasn't a normal ceiling. There was a big, sloppy, redder-than-red painting on it. One that almost felt like it was pressing down on him. Pinning him right where he was and making it... not be easier to breathe?

Nope. He didn't like it. So instead, he closed his eye and- Hm. And noticed something else: The fact that there had been a weight on his shoulder for some time. And that it was about the size and shape of a hand.  
If said hand belonged to a giant. Which it did. _Always_ did.

Dean would never need to check to **know** that it was the hand of his baby brother, warm and gentle, grabbing onto him when something had him worried. And Sammy was _always_ worried.  
Except... Sammy, the little kid who'd needed his big brother to reach things off the shelf for him, wasn't around anymore. Hadn't been for a while. So... why was big Sam holding onto his not so big brother? And why was his hand shaking? And why was he saying his big bro's name again and again and again and again and-

"Dean?"

Hm. Didn't sound right with that pleading bite to it. Wasn't how they talked to each other. Especially not without good-

"Dean, can you here me? It's Sam."

Well. Maybe the guy had good reason after all, thought Dean as he peeled his eye back open. After all, he _could_ hear him, but figuring out what to do with that wasn't coming along very well.

"Dean, blink once if you can hear me," **begged** the guy whose throat sounded like he'd just downed an oversized bowl of nails. And forgot the milk.

"Oh my God, Dean, you can hear me?"

Weird, Dean thought as his eye slowly opened back up, he'd blinked because Sam'd asked him to. Twice even. Without meaning to. Huh.

"Uh, okay, uh, can you _see_ me?"

Slower than slow, Dean felt his head tip to one side, toward the voice belonging to the hand that was still touching him. Stopping when the unexpected image of a deeply lined mask of pure worry scrunched in his direction.

"You can see me?"

When Dean's eye reopened yet again, the face had unscrunched by half.

"You remember me?" His brother asked. As if the alternative was even possible.

For that, under normal circumstances, Sam would have gotten his punk ass told off. But, no matter what _was_ actually going on, it was obvious that circumstances weren't 'normal'. Not by a long shot.

"What was that?" Asked the Sam whose face rescrunched **harder** than it had before as he leaned his head almost too close for focus. All in response to some weird grumble Dean'd-

"hey... sammy," mumbled the smallest voice Dean had ever heard.

"Hey, Dean," said the wettest, least _groomed_ face Dean'd ever seen. "How're you feeling?"

A period of blankness, punctuated by more of that 'wrong head' feeling passed and Dean remembered what he'd wanted to say.  
"hey... sammy."

"Hey, Dean," his baby brother replied, trying and failing to hide a sob behind his off hand. Dean wondered vaguely what the kid could _possibly_ be that sad about, but he lost the train of thought before he could put his finger on it.  
In fact, the harder Dean tried to order his jumble of slippery thoughts, the farther away they floated. Scattering in a way that made the face staring into his lose all its significance.

It was about then that he felt a familiar presence sidle up close. Where it reached out and sort of... grabbed him. Wrapping him up in a light, almost feather soft embrace before pulling him down somewhere dark and safe and quiet. Somewhere he could rest easy and not have to wonder why there were water drops falling on his sheet covered arm.

Soon, Dean was comfortable down to his core. So, with a quick, sloppily constructed thought of thanks, he slipped off back to the deep, restful sleep he hadn't realized he'd been interrupted from.

"Apologies, Samuel."

"Michael?" Asked the hunter with the desperation painted all over his pitiable face.

"I told you you wouldn't like what you saw," Michael reminded, not able to dredge more than a flimsy veneer of the smugness he was due. Not when he was as sickeningly _tired_ as he was.

"He- That wasn't-" The hunter cut himself off and started again. Both of them ignoring the fat drop of saltwater that fell from the end of his nose. Even when the angel could _feel_ it soak into his bed cover. "Is he... suffering?"

"No more than I." Michael went on when the answer somehow did nothing to ease the intensity of his visitor's misery. "He's gone back to sleep."

With a nod of relief, Samuel sat back in his chair and wiped his face once with both hands, then with one, and then again with the other. Buying time to get his emotions back under some semblance of control.  
When he looked back up, his eyes were at least no longer leaking.

"You were right: He's not ready." The man's voice broke on the last syllable and another drop leaked from his strikingly **human** eyes. This time getting itself lost in a forest of overgrown facial hair.

"You are not the one to blame for your brother's misfortunes," Michael found himself saying. Only not stopping halfway through because he realized it was purely a statement of fact.

"He's my brother; I'm his keeper. Literally," the man said as he averted his gaze to wipe the trail of moisture from his face. "I'm pretty sure this has my name written **all** over it."

"_Are_ you your brother's keeper?" Michael challenged, watching in vague interest as his 'visitor' rubbed his entire face in both gargantuan hands for a second time. "Because, having examined as many of his simplistic memories as I have, I seem to recall _Dean_ being the elder."

"Doesn't make any difference," the oversized human said with a rough clearing of his throat. "I put you in that Room- in that _prison_, and look where it got us. You're a mess, Cas's a mess, Mo- Mary's a mess, _I'm_ a mess, and Dean's..."

The way that titanic jaw clamped itself shut, almost as if in fear of speaking the words that might have followed, stirred something in Michael. Something that felt dangerously close to understanding. Or perhaps even that accursed thing he'd heard tell of, back on his rightful earth: sympathy.

'Twas an uncomfortable feeling indeed, but the archangel found himself unable to dispel it through force of will alone. Not while that horse sized hunter continued to droop and self-flagellate not feet from his side.  
"If you must blame someone for your brother's misfortunes, the guilty party lies before you."

"I'm not blaming Dean for trying to save the world," the human insisted, expression darkening along with his voice.

"He made his choices," Michael reprimanded, at the risk of inspiring ire. "But he is not the one to whom I refer."

"Choices? What _choices_ did you give him in all- Wait. What?"

Michael nearly smirked at the speed with which the dullard's percolating anger was doused, confusion suddenly the only sign of intelligence on his simple face.

"A-are you saying that _you_ take responsibility for **this**?" The mammoth of a man said with a gesture at the occupied medical bed before him.

"Look who has two brain cells to rub together after all," Michael confirmed. Lips tugging up ever so minutely at one corner.

"Heh," huffed the hunter as his confusion made way for incredulity. "I never thought I'd see the day," he stated, plainly.

"Yes, well, you are the only soul on this earth who has championed for my continued existence. Therefore, you are the last one I would consider shouldering with such blame."

The following silence indicated the suddenly rather dazed Samuel's need for quiet cogitation. Which suited Michael just fine. Seeing as he'd had quite enough of that most tiresome of conversations as it was. And that his vessel was 'in the mood' for some quiet of its own. Autonomic functions slowing in a way that made him feel sluggish yet at ease. Calming his nerves well enough that he let his eyelid fall shut, something he'd only then realized it had been wanting to do for some time, and blocked out everything but the feeling of his breath coming in and going back out. A rhythm that he'd gotten rather used to by then. Constant as it was.

"Thanks, Michael. Enjoy the rest," the last words his bothersome sitter dared interrupt his peace with.

**Wow, Cas was right about the soul coma thing. And Sam's right about everyone being a mess.**  
**Next chapter will feature both of our very right heroes once again trying their very best.**


	24. What?

**It's Castiel's turn in the medical ward, but Sam has something to tell him before he gives up his shift.**

Castiel took a breath, readying himself for the sight he knew awaited him within. The friend who'd very nearly died by smiting not two days previous. A friend no doubt still mottled in enough livid bruising to disturb the most stalwart of hunter. Who at that very moment was still badly in need of every assistance the angel could offer. And more.

Knowing Sam would be in need of a respite from his tireless vigil, Cas released his lungful and entered their medical ward. Face as unperturbed as he could make it.

"Uh, healing time already?" Asked the brother as he rose from his hunched seat by the bed.

"Yes, I am sufficiently rejuvenated," Cas confirmed, even as the now all too familiar weight of their angel warding pressed in upon him from all sides.

"That was quick, right? Are you sure-"

"Sam, you know I would not risk overextending my abilities. Not when Dean and Michael are both in stable condition," the angel reassured, allowing his friend to study him for signs of fatigue before gesturing to the bed and its currently sleeping occupants.  
"I am though rather eager to be on with it."

"Oh, right, of course- I-I'll get out of your way," the hunter said, stepping aside for the healer.

"Thank you," said Castiel as he walked past, already busy gathering his concentration for what promised to be a slow and tedious exercise in prioritization. The once again maximized wardings forcing Cas to pick and choose through only the most serious of afflictions. Frustrating him to no end when even then, he was able to little more than soothe the worst of them.  
Still, improvement was improvement, so the angel threw himself into the work and did his best to ignore the constant suppression threatening to thwart him at every turn.

When he was satisfied he'd done all that he could for the time being, his focus once again widened to include more than just the damaged entities before him and, with just the hint of a start, Cas realized that he had an audience. Of one. And when said audience asked to speak with him privately, Castiel didn't hesitate to step outside the medical ward with the man.

Once outside easy hearing range of their injured charge, the hunter turned to the angel and took a deep breath.  
"I saw Dean," the Winchester said. Straight faced and serious.

"But that's not right," Cas said with an involuntary frown. "Dean's not ready- His soul is not yet stable enough for such strain," he argued as he shook his head in dismay.

"Well, that's basically what Michael said, but he let Dean out anyway and... and he was right: Dean wasn't ready," Sam informed, face betraying more than his fair share of familial concern. "I've never seen him like that," the brother admitted, sounding rather haunted as his eyes cut back the way they'd just come. "I mean, he just **laid there**, staring at nothing until... It looked like he'd slipped back into a coma, but then he said my name a-and- and we spoke, briefly, and then he was just... _gone_."

"And that was when Michael returned?" Cas asked, perplexed but wanting to be sure of the timeline.

"Yeah, but," Sam said with a likely unconscious scratch to the back of his head, "in a weird way, it kinda felt like he never left? Like he was still there, in the background."

"Hm. That would go quite a ways to explaining both his current exhaustion and Dean's unexpected and premature appearance," Cas posited, now fully understanding why his heavenly relation had not roused through his most recent healing session.

"What're you talking about?" Asked the friend who's face was awash with mounting concern.

"It would explain how Dean managed to remain conscious long enough to remember himself. Let alone form coherent speech," Cas informed, keeping his tone gentle so as not to further disturb his friend.

"What do you mean, Cas? _What_ would explain that?" Sam asked, patience worn understandably thin by so many hours, or perhaps months, of constant, unrelenting stress.

"I mean that Michael was buoying Dean; lending him strength; giving him a leg up; bolstering his soul so that he might speak with you," Cas explained, not stopping until he was sure Sam understood the concept.

"So, Michael was... being nice? For once?" Sam clarified, face scrunched in disbelief.

"As outlandish as it may sound, it would appear so," Cas agreed with a puzzled face flex of his own. "That, or he made a tactical decision meant to curry favor with his favored warden. Either way, he expended valuable energy to allow you some small piece of mind."

"...He did look pretty beat afterwards. Even fell asleep in the middle of insulting the family name," Sam informed with a half formed, somber smile.

One which Castiel found himself mirroring, naturally.

Then, after a long, comfortable moment of quiet, the hunter lifted his chin and spoke.  
"I think it's about time we found him a permanent vessel."

Castiel couldn't stop his eyes going wide at the statement. Only speaking once he was sure of what he'd heard.  
"You're comfortable with Michael possessing someone _else's_-"

"A **vacant** vessel," Sam cut in. "Remember Ruby? She found a no victims vessel and that worked out great."

"Yes, well, as powerful as Ruby was, she did not possess a _fraction_ of the destructive power that Michael possesses. Letting him loose upon the world in **any** sort of vessel would be tantamount to-"

"No one's talking about 'letting him loose upon the world', Cas," Sam insisted in a tone heavy with reproach. "I'm talking about us having a chance at _peacefully_ evicting Michael... and Dean getting his body back."

"...Oh. Of course," Cas breathed, not at all sure how he'd missed something so basic- so _simple_\- so **obvious**.

"I- I know we haven't had time for a- a team huddle, because of the post smiting scramble, but if you and me and Mom brainstorm... I have a feeling this could work. For everyone."

At that, Castiel gave an earnest nod and motioned towards the medical ward.  
"Michael will not wake for quite some time. Mary will soon leave her room in search of sustenance. I'll put on a fresh pot of coffee and we'll have this 'team huddle' in the kitchen."

"Wow, um, okay," Sam started, looking rather flummoxed. "I'll start on an omelette then?"

"I believe Mary would approve," Cas said with a small smile. Glad that Sam had an appetite.

"Breakfast it is, I guess."

"Breakfast and team huddle," the angel reminded as the two of them turned for their destination.

"Right, _and_ coffee," the hunter reminded.

"Yes, and I promise not to burn it this time," Cas said, going through the proper procedure in his mind to prepare himself for his upcoming task.

"Uh, yeah, Mom'll definitely appreciate that."

So with a quick, shared chuckle, the two picked up the pace in order to ready their meeting space for the arrival of the third member of their team.

**Finally, everybody's had a chance to rest up and the team's ready for saving Michael and Dean round two!**


	25. The Search

**Can Team Free Will really pull off getting Michael a suitable non-Dean vessel? One that won't die ****_and_****won't let him destroy the world?**  
**Here's hoping.**

Sam rubbed at his eyes, hating the way they got dryer and dryer as the hours spent hunched in front of his laptop crawled by, his long lost mom sitting across from him, pawing through medical journals and biblical works in turn, scribbling down anything even _potentially_ helpful as they quaffed mug after mug of anything Cas set in front of them.

A Cas playing the part of support as he ran from their little think tank to the medical ward to the Kitchen and back. Continually. All while looking over every note, bookmarked page, and link the human hunters sent him, hoping one would somehow pan out if checked over by someone with a set of eyes more divine than theirs.

There were just so many hospitals to check; so many coma wards and care facilities even just within the tristate area.  
They were never getting through all of it.

Sam sighed as he gave his eyes one more rough massage. Then, deciding that he couldn't stand sitting in the same position a moment longer, he stood from his chair, put his hands to either side of his spine, and stretched his back out. Relieved when it popped just the way he liked.

When he noticed the hunter across from him eyeing him with a rather impressed look, Sam sat back down quick to hide his rising blush behind his laptop screen. A tactic which would have been more effective were he not quite so tall.  
At the clearing of a throat though, the embarrassed Winchester looked up from the glow of his screen and was surprised to find a set of challenging eyebrows leveled his way. And the woman attached to them standing from her seat with an inordinate air of determination.

Then, Sam watched as his mother pulled herself to her full height, put her hands to either side of her spine, and popped her back exactly the way Sam'd just popped his. Only **louder**.

"Huh, so that's where I got it," Sam said, eyebrows high in perplexed amazement.

"I got it from your grandpa," Mary said with a wry grin.

"Guess I inherited more than just his name?" Sam said, remembering how strange it had been to spend time hunting with the man out of time.

"Yeah, you got his stubbornness too," the daughter said with a pointed glance at his laptop.

"The sooner we get through all of this, the sooner Dean gets his body back," Sam reasoned, doing his best to not sound defensive.

"Amen to that," Mary said, nose already back to that grindstone, flipping through yet another volume of her unbelievable stack of leather bound texts.

At the image, Sam guessed that he wasn't the only one to have inherited Samuel's legendary stubbornness.  
Then he went back to work.

Some hours later, the three of them had a meal of questionably safe leftovers in them and a preliminary list of potential candidates to look over. Or, rather, for the angel in their midst to look over.

"Cas, how're we gonna know if the 'vessel' is suitable? And, I mean, if there's no one home, can Michael even **be** '_let_ in'? Is it an abandoned house situation, or more like an unoccupied summer home? Would it still be 'breaking and entering'?" Sam asked, amazed that he hadn't thought to ask any of that before right then.

"We will need to choose wisely. It will have to be someone who, throughout their active years, was devout and optimally an active practitioner of a faith that acknowledges and appreciates our kind," Cas explained. "If we can confirm their history with family, friends, church community, a pastor or rabbi or imam, all the better."

"But will it be enough that they were devout?" Sam asked, trying his best not to sound skeptical. "I mean, I'm sure there are plenty of people who've never missed a Sunday of church who'd sooner admit themselves into the nearest padded room than say 'yes' to letting in an 'archangel of the Lord'."

"I suppose... we'll need to vet them very carefully," Cas said, expression thoughtful. "And have faith that nothing further can go wrong in this,"

"Wait, I've got it," Mary called from where she was sitting at her reading seat at the table, enthusiastic flip of her head swinging her eyes to meet with first Sam's and then Cas's. "Faith, trust? Great, we're gonna need those for sure, but _on top_ of that, if this whole bodysnatcher thing is gonna take, what we need is a donor." The raised brow at the end of her statement did little to clue Sam in to her meaning.

"Uh, right, Mom, that's what we're looking for," the son ventured, wondering whether then was a good time for a team break. Not quite sure how long _any_ of them had been up by that point and absolutely sure all of them could use a few hours away from the dusty tomes and glowing screens.

"An _organ_ donor," Mary amended, brow hiking even higher while she did. Showing no signs of bringing it back down until Sam felt his eyes widen with realization.

"Of course, if someone's signed up for the organ donor program, that means they've given consent for someone else to make use of their body once they... no longer need it. Mom," he said, quick to take the few strides necessary to bring himself around to her seat, "you're a genius." Then he stooped down and draped an arm across her shoulders in the type of hug a much, much younger Dean had occasionally surprised him with when a much, much younger him was busy doing homework. Only, Sam left out the part at the end. The part where Dean made him demonstrate how to break out of a headlock. Or, if he was feeling generous, just gave him a good old-fashioned noogie.  
And Sam definitely wasn't calling his mom a dweeb.

"Yes, Mary, this will allow us to tighten our search substantially," Cas said, face brightening with the realization.

"And better the odds once we've narrowed it down," Sam agreed with a nod.

"Well alright then," Mary started with a mock impatient wave of her hands, "what're we waiting for?"

"Right, we've got an organ donor to find," Sam agreed, giving his mom an impulsive kiss to her temple before releasing his hug and moving back around to his seat at the table.

"Yes, and I'll start a fresh pot," Cas said as he turned from the study group, crossing names off of their list as he left for the kitchen. Muttering to himself as he went.

Sam looked back to his mother as the angel disappeared from sight, finding a face every inch as entertained as his above her stack of old books.  
With a shared shake of their heads, the hunters went back to what they'd already sunk a multitude of hours into, this time with a surer search criteria than they'd originally _hoped_ for and therefore, far more hope than they'd started with.

**Haha, you go, Mary!**


	26. The Donor

**The team's been working around the clock to find a suitable vessel. Castiel's pretty sure they've struck gold.**

"Michael? Seriously? Out of all the care facilities we've checked- all the potential vessels we had to choose from, all the countless keystrokes, and page turns, and the lucky winner's named _Michael_?" Mary asked, tone nothing if not incredulous.

"The improbability of it struck me just as hard, but I've vetted this case thoroughly and this Michael is looking... honestly perfect. In every way," Cas added in as earnest a voice as the angel possessed. Before continuing, if possible, with even more verve. "Rather tragic, I will admit, but he is a registered organ donor, has no immediate family ties, no inescapable debts, a clean record, no current significant other, and," Cas paused to turn his laptop around so that the other two could see the screen, "his brain was declared irreparably damaged two months ago and he has been in a persistent unresponsive state since. Official records state the opinion that there is no chance for recovery."

"That's great, Cas- or, _horrible_, actually, but what makes you think he's our guy? I mean, aside from meeting all our major criteria?" Sam asked as he gave the screen a hard looking over.

"Yeah, Castiel, we have at least five other candidates who match those exact same points," Mary pointed out in her ever reasonable way. "What's special about this one?"

Having everyone's attention, Cas held up and shook one finger, indicating there was more to the story. Then he reached over the laptop and pressed the space key, revealing an entire second page of medical information.  
"Because," he started with a barely suppressed grin as his friend's crowded to take in the additional data, "when this Michael was first brought into this world, the doctors prepared his parents for the worst. He was dangerously small and delivered nowhere near the full gestation period."

"He was premature?" Mary asked, a look akin to sympathy coloring her eyes.

"Indeed," Cas confirmed with a nod. "So much so, in fact, that they declared it a miracle when Michael lived to see his first sunrise. Let alone to see the end of his first week. From there, he defied the odds, eventually being sent home with his parents thoroughly forewarned that he'd be a late bloomer and live a life plagued with ill health and limitations."

"So he grew up healthy and happy despite the early birth?" Sam asked, brows raised.

Cas nodded as the two Winchesters glanced up for confirmation. "And despite the doctors' assertions that it wasn't possible. In fact, they declared it a miracle when he spoke his first words, when he took his first steps, when he learned to ride a horse, and then when he graduated right in step with his peers."

"So his whole life has been one big miracle," Mary offered, expression impressed. "Up until the end, that is."

"That though, is perhaps the most telling miracle of all," Cas corrected in his most fervent tone yet.

"Ending up in the hospital was a miracle?" Sam asked, splitting his attention now between the text on the screen and the angel standing behind it.

"He was the lone survivor of a plane crash that claimed over a dozen victims. It was a miracle that the mountain rescue crew was able to evacuate him in time," Cas informed, pressing the space bar once more to reveal a picture of a press clipping confirming the story.

"Wow, that's just- Are you sure the kid's not _cursed_," Mary asked, face twisted by the gruesome news.

"That is the same question asked by survivors every day," Cas said with a nod. "For a blessing and a curse are often difficult to differentiate, on account of the circumstances surrounding them."

"Right, like, was it a curse that brought down the plane, or a miracle that kept him alive in spite of the fact that it went down," Sam posited, expression studious as this time he pushed the spacebar himself.

"Being an angel myself, I am privy to such knowledge, and it is my vocational opinion that this Michael is indeed blessed. And that he would welcome the chance to help two suffering a life of captivity to once again be free. He'd _want_ to help our Michael, and he'd want to help Dean," Cas finished, looking both hunters in the eyes to be sure they grasped the depth of his certainty.

"Well, what've we got to lose?" Sam asked with a gesture toward the screen before him.

"Only the safety of the entire world," Mary offered, wry smirk making obvious her statement's jocular nature.

"Yes, we must take every precaution," Cas assured all the same. "I've been drawing up wardings and bindings and proofings, attempting to design a patchwork of complimenting blunting, suppressing, restraining, and obscuring sigils to be applied to whichever vessel was chosen. For, with the right combination applied _just_ so, I believe that Michael's divine powers could be limited to only small, beneficial miracles and twists of fate... without his vessel feeling like it's a cage trying to crush the grace from him."

"That's a possibility?"

"That could _happen_?"

Asked two similarly shocked faces. So close together that Cas wasn't sure which had said which.  
"Unfortunately, yes. Generally, the closer a particular warding or enchantment, the more it impinges upon or affects the intended target. Therefore, if a warding meant for a particular entity were buried in their very skin or even bones, it stands to reason that they'd be living in an uncomfortable situation. To say the least."

"Like a ghost forced to live in an iron box?" Sam asked, face a shade lighter than it had been moments earlier.

"Oh, god," Mary uttered, face similarly blanched.

"Perhaps, though I'd imagine the ghost would have a worse time of things than Michael possibly could," the angel assured.

"Is there any way we could help? Uh, some spell books we could dig up or..." Sam asked, petering to a stop when Cas leveled a regretful look his way.

"I'm afraid the level of spell work that it would require to actually improve this sort of mosaic is beyond any of our capabilities."

"Someone else then? You two know a witch, right? A good one? One who doesn't want all of us dead?" Mary queried with a hopeful sort of crease to her brow.

"You think she'd help?" Sam asked the angel in their midst.

"I'm not sure. After her run in with Lucifer, she may want nothing to do with another archangel," Cas reasoned, wishing he had something more helpful to say.

"Maybe we don't lead with that part? Mention the spellwork first and ease into the whole 'Michael' thing?" The tallest of the group suggested.

"A little tact can go a long way," Mary affirmed with an approving nod.

"Very well. Though, perhaps Sam should be the one to contact her. She likes him best," Cas informed when the mother directed a quizzical face his way.

"I don't know, Cas, I'm pretty sure she's had a soft spot for Dean ever since we had her, uh, keep an eye on him... that one time," the brother argued, for some reason alluding to the incident rather than naming it outright.

"What 'time' was that?" Asked Mary, eyes suspicious as they cut from her son to her angelic coworker.

"Uh, no-nothing important, it- It was a while ago?" Sam's voice fizzled out when the woman's look only hardened.

"How long a 'while ago'?" Mary demanded, eyes narrowed.

"Approximately two years ago. Dean was hit with some 'bad juju' and nearly lost his memories as well as his sense of self-identity," Cas explained, hoping to appease the disgruntled woman.

"...And when was _I_ going to hear about this?" Asked the now clearly affronted hunter.

"Uh, Dean didn't want you to worry?" Informed an uncomfortable Sam, squirming just a bit under the balefully maternal look Mary was bearing down upon him.

"I'm his _mother_; it's my **job** to worry," the woman insisted, displeased face intact as she took a step forward. "Is there anything else the two of you've gotten up to that I should know about?"

Sam responded by taking a halting half step backward and raising his hands in a placating sort of motion.

"Mary," Castiel said, hoping to break the mother from her anger, "Sam and Dean have saved countless lives and indeed the world itself more times than any history book will ever acknowledge. Unfortunately, in so doing, they have suffered many hardships and lost many friends. Myself among them. I'm sure you understand how difficult talking about such things can be. No matter how much time has passed."

The last of the rankled parental instincts bled out of the senior Winchester as she stared at Castiel.  
When she looked back to Sam, Cas was relieved to see her eyes held an apology.

"Was Dean the only one hit with that 'bad juju'?"

"Yeah," Sam said, looking as if he'd just dodged a bullet. "Good thing too, because that hex worked a little _too_ well."

"And far too fast," Cas added.

"Well, I'm glad the three of you came out of it alright, but... you _know_ you can count on me, right, Sam?" The smaller hunter asked, apologetic look deepening. "To be there with a machete or a blowtorch or even a friendly ear? You don't need to hide things from me; I'm your-"

"You're our mom, Mom," Sam supplied, expression soft and wistful, almost as if he couldn't believe the words himself. "It's just... I'd never had a mom before Amara brought you back."

Castiel almost couldn't comprehend the look that overtook Mary's face at the words. The depth of regret and **sadness** that sprang to life there.  
In that moment, for the first time in quite a while, Cas felt as if he was intruding on something private. Doubly so when the two came together for a teary eyed hug.

He was reminded though when the mother and son motioned for him to join them that they themselves did indeed consider him a part of their family.

The sentiment nearly made his own eyes water.  
The way the circle of arms accepted him when he walked up close, without a hint of reservation, _did_.

It was nearly a minute before a one of them spoke.  
"Alright," began a Sam whose head was rested snug atop those of his huddled team, "I think it's time to make that call."

"Agreed," mumbled a Cas surprised by how rough his voice had grown, clearing his throat as the three pulled away from one another.

"The sooner the better," affirmed a Mary running a quick, moisture wicking finger under each averted eye.

"Well, good thing I've got her on speed dial," assured Sam as he pulled his cellphone from its resting place. "With any luck, she'll be here by tomorrow."

The group held a collective breath as a single motion had the number dialed automatically. Speakerphone was selected with one more motion and every shoulder tensed as ring followed ring. Finally, the other end was picked up and a cheery, accented voice at once filtered through the speaker.  
"Samuel, it's been far too long, dear."

**Woah, The Winchesters reaching out for help when they really need it? Sounds like this family's starting to get the hang of having friends!**


	27. The Witch

**Rowena receives a call from a certain number that only ever rings when there's trouble. Why she doesn't just let it go to voicemail is a mystery she'll never unravel.**

**Also, sorry, forgot to mention that the incident Castiel and Sam told Mary about last chapter was the main plot of ep 11, s 12 titled Regarding Dean. It's an amazing episode, by the way. I highly recommend it if you're in the mood for having your heartstrings tugged on!**

As she approached her front door, key and take away coffee in hand, Rowena took a moment to assess her day and mused that it'd been a good one. All things considered.

She'd started it off with a perfectly fried egg in a basket, followed by a relaxing post breakfast hour or so of tidying and magical home defense reinforcing. Then, fancying a walk about the sleepy little town she currently called home, hoping to give her new shoes a good breaking in, the witch had grabbed her purse, said a quick UV repellent spell, and been on her way.

Cutting through the little alley that separated her apartment building from the quaint, homey trailer park next door, Rowena smiled as every few steps brought with them the unmistakable crunch of glass being crushed underfoot.  
It was really the feel of it more than the sound. Reminded her of Glasgow. Back before the city'd implemented basic sanitation protocols. And installed some bloody public rubbish bins.

Passing the perpetually uninteresting corner mart and taking the road to the outskirts of her semi-pastoral town, Rowena perked at the sounds that met her under-stimulated ears: the roar, rumble, and blat of at least a dozen large bore engines. All headed in the same direction.

Only a short minute later and she'd gotten herself within sight of the local dive bar, the main building of which sat neatly in the crook of a charming dirt crossroads, its quaint excuse for a parking lot newly spotted in large motorcycles parked alongside the normal clientele's dusty pickup trucks and old, _nearly_ maintained muscle cars. Leather clad cyclists disembarking their faithful cromed and stainless steel steeds for the tempting invitation of a cold drink.

Standing across the way, enjoying the admittedly rather exciting view, Rowena'd spotted something quite unexpected sneaking in the swinging front doors, right on the heels of the town's visiting bike enthusiast club: a demon. The interloper easy to pick out for his completely commonplace attire, against the novel style of dress of the far more heavily muscled and tanned group. Outfitted as they were with their matching tasseled leather vests and large sparkling spurs and belt buckles.

And besides, even without the charred and blackened aura the fiend was positively _oozing_, Rowena had no trouble recognizing the look of a heartless bastard on the hunt for trouble. So, feeling rather generous that fine day, the witch swept in after the slinking cur, easily diverted his attention away from the bar full of clueless potential targets, and duped him into taking her up on a sporting 'hand or two' of poker.

Before the gaggle of motor enthusiasts had even ordered their second round of spirits, she'd won off the black eyed devil a small wooden box of Kennedy era Cuban cigars, a sachet stuffed to the brim with an astronomical number of genuine Ute peyote buttons, and one monkeys paw guaranteed good for three more wishes.

The way the demon'd fumed and demanded a chance to win back his 'goods' after every big stakes hand was entertaining in and of itself, but the real fun of their little game?  
The fool'd been too busy **losing** to a wee, fresh-faced lass to notice said lass had been whispering a nasty little exorcism since they'd put up heir first antes.

By the time he had noticed, it was too late.  
The cad was gagging on his own smoke before he'd even reached for the pigsticker 'hidden' at the back of his waistband.

One halfhearted shout of, "Oh my word, this man is choking!", and the bar was in enough of a tizzy that her spoils were slipped inside her purse and Rowena was slipped back out into the now fairly cloudy day. Intent on enjoying the rest of her walk.

Figuring she ought to save the cigars, psychoactive dried cactus, and cursed primate hand for some good trades down the road, she'd made a quick detour and dropped the illegal, controlled, and flea bitten things off at one of her magical accoutrements caches and been on her way.

Strangely, things hadn't gone downhill from there. Instead, the shoes she'd been out on a walk hoping to break in never even _threatened_ to give her blisters, the eventual light rain hadn't made her hair frizz, and the new coffee shop she'd decided to give a shot had a pair of strapping barista she was definitely coming back to order from again.  
Just as soon as she got her hands on a little more cash. So she could afford to tip the two the sort of money they so **clearly** deserved.

And then there was the fact that, since she'd moved into her one bedroom slice of heaven, she'd not been bothered nor threatened by even one disgruntled witch or warlock who inexplicably wanted her dead. And she'd been living out of the same flat for well over a month.

So it was with a feeling of accomplishment and a self-satisfied smile that she pushed open her door, walked over her enchanted threshold, and breathed in the smell of a well lived-in domicile.

And then her accursed phone had to ruin the moment with a banshee loud wail for attention. A wail which repeated ad nauseum as she hurried to set down her take away cup so that she could dig to the bottom of her purse for the blasted, **screaming**, vibrating thing.

The moment she had the phone out in the open she accepted the call and pressed the speaker to her ear.  
"Samuel, it's been far too long, dear," she said as soon as the lines were connected. "Tell me, what problems of world ending magnitude do you need me to solve for you _this_ time?"

"Hi, Rowena, uh, listen," requested a voice somehow lacking even its usual gossamer thin thread of confidence, "we were hoping you were available to consult on a project. You see, there's this... problem- uh, a magic problem, or more like a puzzle, maybe, and-"

"It's Dean," the voice of Castiel blurted, cutting off the Winchester before he'd even had a chance to finish his opening statement.

"Oh, and what sort of trouble has the endearing lump gotten himself into since last we spoke?" Rowena asked, just a tad surprised when she caught herself hoping it wasn't anything too serious.

"He is possessed by the archangel Michael," Cas, again, said before his tall friend could get a word in edgewise.

"Oh?" She prodded, not liking the sound of that one bit. Nor the way her skin had threatened to crawl at the mere mention of the heavenly scourge. The closest living equivalent to a certain evil entity she was _not_ suddenly checking the corners for.

"Yes, but that's not what we've called about," the angel continued.

"No?" The witch prompted, forcing her shoulders to relax at the inadvertent reassurance.

"No. You see, Michael —not our world's; the one from Apocalypse World— has essentially been imprisoned within Dean who in turn has imprisoned himself within a ma'lak box that we call the Room. Michael recently grew restless and desperate enough that he gravely injured the both of them in a bid to force us to remove them from the Room. After his gambit proved successful, he proposed to Sam, his favored among us, an alternative arrangement: Bind him to another vessel, seal his destructive powers, and allow him to live a peaceful, free life."

"...And you believe him? That he's turned a new leaf and is willing to live under those conditions?" Asked the witch, all dubiousness and raised eyebrows. And only _barely_ elevated heart rate.

"Weirdly enough," came again the unmistakable voice of Samuel Winchester, "I _do_. Believe him. He **hates** the Room bad enough that he'd do just about anything to not have to live in there anymore. We have him sigil bound to a hospital bed with exactly zero escape attempts to prove it too."

"He hasn't attempted to kill any of you? Aside from poor Dean, of course?" The witch asked, eyebrows furrowing at the terrible thought.

"Yeah, the weird thing about that is, he was actually _protecting_ Dean. It was like he was trying to smite only himself, but couldn't keep Dean from getting hurt in the process," Sam supplied, voice both impressed yet unspeakably sad.

"So you're telling me an _archangel_ grew a conscience and that you'd like to reward that turn of heart with a body all his own?" Rowena clarified, not sure she had the story straight just yet.

"Yes," came a jumble of voices, bouncing off each other and echoing through her speaker as if through some sort of tunnel.

"And where do I supposedly come into this diverting fairy tale?" Asked the witch whose curiosity had finally banished the last of her unease.

"We were hoping that you could come in and consult on-"

"I need your help with preparing Michael's new vessel," Castiel said, once again cutting off the hapless hunter. "The necessary spellwork is proving too advanced."

After a careful moment of consideration, Rowena double checked that the handheld device's microphone was at optimal distance and posed the most important question available to a woman in her rather unique position.  
"What's in it for me?"

"Uh, we have relics and- and stores of magical artifacts and-"

"And cash. Untraceable."

Liking the way the angel was thinking, the witch moved a lock of hair out of her face with a small flip of her head and offered in her most professional voice, "I'll be there first thing in the morning."

"Thank you. We will have lodgings and payment prepared. We anxiously await your arrival."

And at the sound of an argument blooming to life on the other end of the line, the call was terminated and Rowena was left as befuddled as she'd ever been following a call from the Winchesters. Or their angel, for that matter.

But, reminding herself that she had a plane to catch, the Scott simply gave a disapproving tut and stowed her phone. Then she hung her purse from its hook by the door and made for her overnight bag. Knowing she had plenty for her little trip already packed and tucked away for just such a rainy day.

**Haha, good old Rowena, ready to help whenever the call comes knocking! XD**  
**Next chapter will feature a well rounded ensemble of Castiel, Sam, Mary, Rowena, and maybe even a sneak peek at the angelic reason for her visit!**


	28. Gemini Man

**Rowena arrives for her latest paycheck- that is, for her latest consulting job and finds herself rather unprepared for what's waiting for her down in the halls of that once abandoned bunker.**

The flight into Kansas proving every inch as dull and tiresome as she'd expected, Rowena treated herself to an in-flight nap followed by several minutes of flipping through the selection of movies they had available to play out the back of the seat in front of her. Eventually stopping on and selecting an old favorite from a bygone era, the rather risqué She Done Him Wrong.

With a sigh, the older-than-she-looked Scott let herself stare at the dreamy black and white face of one of the kings of Hollywood past, remembering how badly she'd wanted to kiss those supple, smiling lips and feel those big, strong arms hold her close while she drank in the intoxicating aroma of his top shelf cologne. Back when talkies were all the rage and Cary Grant was the talk of every town with a renovated cinema.

As it was, she'd had to make due with watching him over and over again on the big screen, playing the lead in hit after hit as the world got drunk off his charisma and humble charm.  
And now here she was, nearly a century later, flying across state lines in a great metal bird, and the man's fetching baritone still set her imagination ablaze.

"Why don't you come up sometime and see me?" Rowena quoted along with the fabulous Mae West, feeling exactly as the leading lady must have as she gazed out her window at the man of both their affections.

She switched off the blast from the past when a voice rang over the intercom, telling the passengers that the plane would soon be landing.

After that it was a short trundle to disembark, a brisk walk through the airport to secure a taxi, and she was on her way to Lebanon and the underground fortress her hunter acquaintances called home.

Having already gotten in a good walk, Rowena guided her cabby right up to the bunker's front door, content in the knowledge that the man wouldn't remember a thing about this particular fare, courtesy the sneaky little short-term memory spell she'd hit him with before he'd had a chance to get a good look at her very memorable face.

Waiting until the taxi was well out of sight, the witch turned to knock on the imposing door and was impressed when it opened before she'd so much as touched it. Castiel standing inside, giving her a look that positively _screamed_ 'I know what you did'.

"Ooh, I'm starting to like the service around here," she said as she stepped through the open port. Easily ignoring the tired look that followed her. "I trust my accommodations are prepared to my very high standards?" She asked as she watched the angel shut and lock the fortified entrance.

"Silver serving tray with a crystal glass and bottle of forty year brandy on the nightstand? Yes. Your very high standards are indeed reflected in your accommodations," assured the heavenly greeting committee.

"Good. Now, be a dear and take these," she instructed as she pushed her luggage into the angel's otherwise unoccupied hands. "The big one by the foot of my bed and the small one on the-"

"Rowena," Castiel interjected, "there are far more important things to discuss than where you'd like your bags."

"You're absolutely right," Rowena allowed, turning to take the stairs down and into the bowels of one of the world's most heavily warded havens. "I'll also be needing freshly laundered linens and towels, seeing as you clearly think this job too big for one day and, let's face it, the bed was a tad musty the last time I stayed over."

"Rowena," the bellhop said again, this time with a hint of urgency.

"Yes, dear?" She asked as she reached the foyer, turning to watch her helper take the last few stairs himself.

"Please, _please_ take this seriously. The Winchesters have been through enough as it is."

"Oh my, speak for yourself, Castiel," the witch said as she got her first good and proper look at the angel.

"I'm fine," he said quite plainly.

"No, no you're not fine: hair is fine; _you're_ a right mess," she said with conviction, having seen it for herself. Forgiving her eyes the extra blink they'd needed to adjust, considering they were not often afforded the opportunity to read the auras of such heavenly beings.

The target of her concern opened his mouth, reply on the tip of his tongue, when the tromping of a set of boots drew all attentions to the hunter emerging from the hall and making quick work of his approach.

"Rowena, thanks for coming," the man said, more relief behind it than made the witch comfortable.

"Samuel, you look as though you've not slept in _weeks_," Rowena chastised, pulling the downtrodden boy into a reflexive hug when he came close. "Is it that bad?" She asked as he reciprocated. Reassured by the touch that he was at least in good physical health.

"Uh, thanks. You look perfect, as usual," the hunter chided, getting himself a sporting cuff about the arm for his lip.  
He'd sobered though by the time they pulled apart. "You have to see them for yourself. But... yeah. It's that bad."

"In that case, what are we waiting for? Lead the way."

And with a hurried gesture Samuel was off, glancing back every few ground eating strides to check he hadn't lost his magical consultant.

He led the way down and around until they arrived at the infirmary, pausing only to let the witch catch up before showing her to a cubicle constructed purely of medical privacy screens. What must have been red paint soaked through from the inside every few feet, making the thing look as if some sort of massacre had taken place within.

Bracing for what she might find, Rowena ducked through the opening and... and had to double take at the scene that greeted her.  
A woman sat in a small chair to one side of an occupied medical bed, a lamp set on a small side table emitting a warm, almost soothing glow just bright enough for reading by. Which the woman had obviously been doing. Aloud. Before she'd jumped from her chair and reached for the knife at the back of her waistband.

"Don't mind little old me," Rowena chirped in her least condescending coo, "I won't bite."

"Sam?" The woman- _hunter_ by the look of her, asked of the man slipping himself into the now rather crowded tent.

"Apologies, I meant to alert you but the warding blocks all long-distance communication," said Castiel as he too shouldered his way into their little impromptu meeting space.

"You're Rowena?" Asked the hunter by the bed, posture relaxing as she did.

"Charmed, I'm sure. Now," the witch said as she waved away any more impending questions, "let me have a look at what all this fuss is about."

The hunters took the hint and shuffled themselves as out of the way as possible, the witch giving them an approving nod when they all lined up by the entrance. Looking almost like tin soldiers with their stiff backs and wooden expressions.  
Setting her gaze instead upon the figure sleeping soundly in the bed, a sigil marked blanket cozied up to his chin, Rowena blinked once, twice, three times. Straining ever so slightly when she realized there were wardings against magic splashed upon the walls, mixed in with the numerous meant for the suppression of miracles in all their myriad forms.

One more concerted blink and an angelic aura began to disentangle itself from the fog of weighty, forceful suppressions. As it came into focus, Rowena was given the distinct impression of a set of wings, crippled in their own right and bound nonetheless. Twitching feverishly as the one they belonged to hibernated in an attempt to conserve what energy he still had.

"Oh, my _word_," Rowena declared, having to stop and take a breath before looking any closer. Balking ever so slightly when her eyes finally broke through the last layers of magic muffling and a second aura revealed itself. Coddled safe and shockingly small at the center of those hulking, quivering, _broken_ wings.

She couldn't look any longer.

"This is utterly **appalling**," she said, voice tight as she turned to the soldiers at her back. "I can see now that you weren't exaggerating, Samuel: it _is_ that bad."

"I-is there anything you could do? To make them more comfortable or-or help speed up the healing process?" The tallest of them asked, making a small, pathetic gesture as he did.

"Well, I'll have to give these walls a good looking over, and give some thought to how best to adjust the wardings' inhibiting elements, but I don't see why not," Rowena said, giving a decisive nod before swinging around to start at one corner of the overfilled space and work her way round.

Perhaps not wanting to break her concentration, her audience fell and remained silent as the witch moved her attention from warding to warding, giving the fabric walls a thorough perusal. Understanding as she did why the lines were, in places, so slipshod as to make their sigils nigh unreadable. Seeing as the pair in one would, impossibly, have been in **worse** condition when they'd moved them in there.

"I take it you've been healing them yourself, dear?" Rowena asked with but a flick of her head spared the angel behind her, busy scrutinizing an Enochian sigil she recognized as possessing anti-miracle agents.

"Yes. Though the first couple of times we had the walls farther back. We moved them close because we cannot risk an escape," Castiel answered with a hapless sort of look about him. As per the usual.

"Well," the witch began as she dusted her hands, having come to the end of her assessment, "considering the state of affairs, I'm surprised that you've managed it this far on your own. But, no matter, Rowena the great and powerful is here now _and_... she has decided to take the job," the Winchester's best chance at success informed with a dainty sniff, hoping to catch a whiff of the residual grace hanging in the stagnant space. To better understand the condition of both the divine beings who'd been spending hard time in there.

"You mean, you hadn't decided _before_ you took the trip all the way out here?" Quipped the one Rowena had taken but a cursory notice of upon arrival. She being smaller by a head than Samuel and of unremarkable stature aside.

Rowena turned to take a proper look at the blonde and was struck first by the aura that met her, more vivid than she'd expected, and second by the strings of fate all wrung in webs around the woman.  
This hunter was far more than the glorified babysitter the Scott had initially thought her. Far more willful, and _far_ more interesting.

"Hm, I often get called in on hard cases by these boys, but I never know until I've seen the details for myself whether I've interest in staying on." When the blonde did nothing to hide a full faced sneer at her words, the witch decided that she was going to _like_ her. It was also then, with the flashing of that oh-so familiar expression, one she'd seen countless times on the face of a certain currently indisposed hunter, that she gleaned exactly who it was she was talking to.  
"Charmed, Ms. Winchester. You've yourself a couple of bang-up sons."

"...Thanks," the hunter said, stepping forward and accepting the proffered handshake. At length.

"Oh, right, uh, Rowena, this is Mary, my- uh, our- that is, _Dean's_ and my mom. Mom, this is Rowena, a semi-longtime magical ally of ours," the overly tall boy belatedly introduced in his ever fumbling way.

"Right, deary, I think we've figured that bit out on our own, but I'll thank you for the effort anyway," Rowena allowed, graciously.

"Uh, you're welcome?"

"Yes, quite, deary. Now," Rowena said, clapping her hands together to gather the group's scattering attentions, "Castiel, I believe you had some plans you wanted my unparalleled guiding wisdom set upon?"

"Yes, I have my most recent attempt right here," the angel said, pulling a ridiculous piece of creased parchment from one rumpled coat pocket. "I am continually lost in the calculations," he admitted as he handed the paper to the professional in the ward. "There are so many variables and I've no way to reliably test any of it. I also fear that, if we do all that I feel is necessary, Michael will not know a single day of comfort in his new vessel."

Rowena glanced around at the flinch the sentiment seemed to draw from the crowd. Thinking with a quirk of her exceptionally groomed brow, that apparently this archangel had managed to ingratiate his way into their soft, soft hearts.  
Interesting.

"We want him to have his own body, a-and we _definitely_ want Dean to have his back, but we don't want Michael to have to suffer for it," Samuel added in his ever querulous baritone, confirming exactly what Rowena had just begun to suspect.

"Don't worry, Samuel, I'm on the case, so there's not a chance in heaven nor hell of failure," the witch assured, offering a tender touch to the tall, _tall_ man's arm.

"Now _this_ I have to see," said the Winchester reminding Rowena more and more of the bedridden boy she hadn't yet taken more than the initial peek at. Too shocked by the battered double aura with the chaotic tangling of life lines to muster a longer look just yet.

"Well, you're in luck, Ms. Winchester, everyone here's just won front row tickets to watch a master spellsmith at work," the witch assured, enjoying the roll of the eyes that got her from the minuscule hunter. Then, with an amused smirk, she moved to address the entire group.  
"I think I'll start things off by brewing up an utterly _divine_ pot of tea, then the humans can go off to catch up on some well needed beauty rest while the angel and I straighten out this vexing puzzle," Rowena suggested, giving the conundrum in her hand a flourish before turning for the exit. Knowing without a backward glance that she'd have three disciples following close behind, all the way to their ghastly little kitchen and the promise of her culinary mastery.

**Who knew Rowena could be compassionate when she put her mind to it? I'm pretty sure Sam did! XD**

**In case anyone was wondering what the heck a 'talkie' is:**  
**'Movie' is a shortening of the term Moving Picture Show (other variants were also used) and 'Talkie' was a popular deviation for a while as the newest technology made possible the syncing of audio to the visual, allowing the release of 'Talking Motion Pictures' by about the end of the 1920's.**  
**Pretty neat, huh? :D**


	29. Let Me, Deary

**With Rowena comfortably checked in to her underground bed and breakfast, the witch is ready to knuckle down and solve the Winchester's newest potentially world ending conundrum.**  
**Castiel just hopes she's not going to treat him like her own personal bellhop for her entire stay.**

Rowena's 'utterly divine' pot of tea turned out to be hexed. Or enchanted. Or otherwise tampered with.  
Cas could tell.

Because if it hadn't been, Sam and Mary would never have listened to the witch when she told them to 'Get some rest, dearies. We'll take it from here.'

But the suddenly quite tired humans had nodded agreement and shuffled off toward their respective quarters. Almost as if compelled by some sort of invisible, _magical_ force.

Still, Castiel let them go without protest, seeing as there was no disputing the fact that they did in fact need the rest. Desperately.  
The dark circles under their eyes were reaching worrying radius and Cas wasn't interested in seeing just how far they would grow unchecked.

Giving the witch who'd obviously tricked the humans into drinking some sort of sleeping potion a knowing look, one which she simply batted her lashes at in a mockery of feigned innocence, he pointed back to the plans he'd sketched out the night before and began the grueling task of keeping up with the other's arcane computations.

After approximately a half hour spent largely muttering to each other in Vulgar and Late Latin, the witch looked up from the diagram she'd been sketching for the angel's edification and posed a question. In modern English.  
"Castiel, is it normative of your kind to rely upon sleep as a source of rejuvenation?" Her casual tone and out of the blue subject throwing Cas for a moment.

"Uh, no, not generally. _I've_ grown rather accustomed to the regenerative few hours every now and again, but other angels consider it not but a 'human waste of time'."

"Hm," the witch said with a nod, looking very much as if she were mulling over something of grave import.  
"Has your archangel 'grown accustomed' as well?" The words she eventually landed upon.

"No, he too considers it an activity far, _far_ beneath him," Cas informed, realizing with her slight frown that their consultant was woefully unfamiliar with both the subject and indeed the being she was being asked to consult upon.

"Then why, if I may ask, was he fast asleep when we went to see him earlier?"

"Hm, that would be the exhaustion," said the angel, nod solemn but sure. "You see, it was not long after he posed to Sam his proposition for a vessel of his own, Michael allowed the brothers to speak."

"But that's not _possible_," the witch protested, voice every inch as incredulous as her expression. "Dean's poor soul's so banged up I don't expect it'd be able to keep his body going on its own. Not without medical intervention."

"That was my assessment as well, but from what Sam relayed to me of the incident, I've ascertained that Michael, essentially, pooled what energy his recovery to that point had afforded him and performed a delicate though risky miracle. But he must have miscalculated the strain it would take on his regenerating system, because he fell asleep **soon** after and I've not seen him awake since."

"...Well, that certainly clears up a few things," the witch said with a twist of her mouth.

"Speaking of Michael, it's past time he was checked on again," Cas said as the thought belatedly occurred to him, **feeling** it in his joints when he rose from his seat with a tired upward shove.

"Oh, yes, that's quite a while to leave such an entity unattended," Rowena said as she followed suit. Staying strangely, amicably silent as she walked alongside Castiel out the kitchen, through the halls, and down to the only place inside the bunker with angel warding near as strong as that of the Room itself.

Cas was befuddled though when, just as they'd about arrived, Rowena stepped ahead and stopped between him and the entrance to their medical ward. Giving him an assessing look up and down as she barred his way.

"Isn't it a shame, Castiel, that an angel of your talents would be subject to hours on end inside a working environment as hostile as that?" The woman asked, waving behind herself to indicate Michael's warded lodgings.

"It would be a shame for _any_ angel to be subjected to such against their will, yes, but I have chosen this as the safest and most effective and indeed efficient mode of-"

"Do your hunter friends know how draining it is on you? Or, if they do, do they truly care? Because just a passing whiff of that depleted divinity and _I'm_ worried. About what you're doing to yourself."

The lack of any sign of duplicity on the witch's face had Castiel blinking. Not accustomed to plain speech from the woman. Nor to anything so compassionate as _concern_, of all things.  
"I'll tell you what I've told them, every time they've asked: I'm fine," he promised with a demonstrative shrug. "I wouldn't risk overextending-"

"Oh, but you **would**, my dear," insisted the witch. "Any one out of the three of you would. Maybe not for your new archangel, but for _Dean_?" She concluded, head canting in an exaggerated way to one side as she studied the angel.

"You- You mustn't judge them harshly; neither Sam nor Mary possess the insight necessary to assess such unnatural things. They're concerned, and their concern is appreciated, but if I don't give this my all..."

"Dean and the archangel may slip even deeper into their coma," Rowena supplied. To which, Cas gave a nod that he hoped hadn't looked quite so resigned as it'd felt.

"I am the only one of us who can help them to heal. Therefore, I will do what I must and I will do so gratefully and without complaint," Castiel insisted, chin rising in challenge when one corner of the witch's lips curled upwards.

"Well, no matter how 'gratefully' you'd throw yourself once more unto the breach, I'm afraid there's no need. After all, your savior has arrived and your quaint little angel tomb just so happens to have nary an effect on her," the witch boasted with a self-confident raise of one brow.

"Rowena," Cas started with a worn shake of his head, "this is a complicated and delicate process involving both a heavily traumatized human body and soul _as well as_ an angel's battered grace."

"You think I haven't dealt with 'complicated' before?" The woman asked, expression confident as ever.

"I'm just not sure that you understand the gravity and delicacy of the situation," Castiel admitted, keeping his manners in place as much as possible.

"Well, I'm not sure _you_ understand the extent of _my_ abilities," she challenged, eyes flashing with just a hint of indignation. "For example: I can see exactly how this whole mess has effected you and Samuel and his mother and I can tell you for a fact that that level of stress is not sustainable. The three of you would've burnt yourselves out if you'd kept on the way you were."

"We didn't have much of a choice," the angel informed, feeling his proverbial feathers ruffled at the judgmental tone.

"No, you've had choices," insisted the witch. "Me, for example," she said with a wave at her snappy, shimmering vestments. "You could've called me from the beginning. Or at least before the three of you near keeled over from pure pigheaded stubbornness."

"That's uncalled for," Cas insisted, his disquiet deepening at the criticism.

"No, Castiel, what's uncalled for is the way you martyrs are comfortable treating yourselves," the witch said with a shake of her head. "I mean, working yourselves half to death, watching one of your own waste away under angelic possession, all because you _still_ can't bring yourselves to trust me?"

The look of hurt that flitted unbidden across the woman's colorful face had Castiel moving to refute the allegation, but his mouth stuck where it was when he realized that, at least in his case, Rowena was absolutely right. In fact, after all they'd been through, Cas doubted he'd **ever** be ready to truly trust the woman.  
He gave her a defeated shrug in answer.

"Well, at least you're being honest with yourself now," Rowena said with a prim readjusting of her shoulders. "And, tell the truth, I can't blame you for the lack of faith. I'll be the first to admit, I've given you plenty reason over the years. But my point stands: You three _need_ me and it's a good thing you called when you did. Now, be a dear and let me handle this round."

Then, without so much as a backward glance, the witch whisked herself around, blew on through the medical ward, and disappeared into the angel warded tent. Leaving Cas with nothing to do but pull up the least uncomfortable chair he could find and settle himself for what would likely prove an uncomfortable, _long_ wait.

**Oh my gosh, Rowena ****_cares_****? About Castiel?! If that's not out of character, I don't know what is! XD**  
**Next chapter will once again feature our favorite Scottish witch as well as a certain recovering archangel! **

**P.S. Thanks so much for reading! I hope that everyone out there is doing well and that this update was able to help brighten your day just that little bit! :D**


	30. New Faces

**The proverbial sleeves are rolled up and the first round of magic is prepped.**  
**Rowena's just curious how this new archangel's gonna take it.**

Rowena took two steps inside the medical tent and paused to study the unmoving figure in the bed.  
Seeing his condition hadn't changed in the past hour or so, she walked the rest of the way close and stopped by the nightstand.

There she stood still, taking in the unsettling sight of the bruised and swollen visage. Barely recognizable under all that purple and green.

Compelled by a sudden rush of sentimentality, the witch reached out a hand only just beginning to thrum with soon to be used magical energy and laid it, softer than soft, at the center of the boy's chest. Unexpectedly reassured by the steady rise and fall.

"I'm sorry, dearie," she whispered, never minding that the lad couldn't hear her. "If only I'd been called in sooner."

Then the Scot gasped as, in a flash, an image was thrust unbidden into the focus of her mind's eye:  
A body, broken and half alive; insides caught up in an uncontrolled bleeding while ruptured organs floundered to keep themselves together. Their screams for help at long last silenced by the grace of a heavenly being's divine intervention.

The witch flinched away, not having expected the touch to activate her second sight. Or, in the very least, not in such a vivid way. And certainly not to show her anything so horrid as _that_.

Now wondering at how the lad had survived at all, and understanding all the better exactly the 'why' behind Castiel's current heavily diminished condition, the witch commenced her work.  
Moving hands that, to her eyes, _shone_ with ripples of supernatural power, she began by tracing the sigil painted upon the bed linens. Reinforcing it and its counterpart splashed upon the ceiling, willing both to work more efficiently in their task of keeping a certain archangel from 'miracling' himself away.

Satisfied when the wardings' influences proved considerably strengthened, Rowena moved to the closest wall, keen to be on with the next part, and found the place where the room's sigils began. There the witch tied a fresh strand of her spell to it and began to cast in earnest.

At the sound of breathing beginning to burden Rowena chanced a glance backward and grimaced at the wrinkle on her subject's previously smooth brow. Knowing that the only thing for it was to see her work through to the end, she attuned her ears to monitor the worsening situation and pushed her body to spin her magic faster.

At her new, more determined speed, Rowena worked the rest of the way from where solid wall met its fabric counterpart and round to the opposite like corner. Then, sparing herself not an extra breath between passes, the witch began her second sweep with a smooth doubling back movement, working reverse-wise parallel to the string she'd just lain, building a weft through which she'd soon be shuttling her warp. Weaving —quite nearly literally— a sheet of magic which would attach itself to the tent's existing warding. Empowering and stabilizing the sigils whose slipshod construction had been a thing born of desperation and fear.

Upon completion of her final horizontal round, Rowena caught her shoulders relaxing their unusually rigid posture and she breathed a sigh of relief, for the sounds of labored sleep from the bed had subsided substantially as she'd readied to move from weft to warp.  
At that rate, it wouldn't be long before a certain archangel would be waking and no doubt making unreasonable demands of-

"Who are you?"

Speak of the devil, Rowena thought as the harshness of the question caused the witch to pause in her weaving, if only for a moment.  
Unwilling to abandon her work at that particular, untenable juncture, the witch finished her round, doing her best to ignore the distinct, uneasy feeling of being studied, and came to a stop at one side of the newly enchanted space.

There she put a proverbial pin in her weaving, turned, and looked into the face of one now more magically immobilized than ever. Searching cold eyes for a trace of the sweet goofball she'd somehow, somewhere along the way, accidentally come to care for.

"I'll ask only once more: Who **are** you?" Rumbled the entity in the borrowed body. An entity who'd obviously never been instructed in the finer points of conversation. Nor _manners_, for that matter.

Not interested in taking that sort of lip from a barbarian of such ill repute, Rowena gave a dismissive sniff and turned from the bed. Going right back to where she'd so generously been working, moving hands now **dripping** with magic _just_ so as to pick up the trail where she'd left off.

Tiring, sooner than she thought a grown woman should, of her archangel directed 'cold shoulder', the witch gave in to one of her more childish impulses and attempted to engage the uncouth being in some light banter.  
"So, you really were asleep this whole time? And here I thought you were ignoring me."

At the heavy silence that ensued, the spell caster glanced back, only to be shocked by how positively _not_ Dean the entity **glowering** at her clearly was. For Dean, even at his most desperate, would never have aimed to make her as uncomfortable- as _intimidated_ as the archangel pinned to his bed was right then.

With a fortifying breath, the witch went back to what she was doing and did her best to ignore the feeling of _eyes_ following her every move.

Sooner again than she'd have liked though, her less mature side was biting at the bit for a spot of entertainment and it was not but a few minutes in that her resolve crumbled a second time.  
"I suppose then that Samuel didn't tell you I was coming?" She asked, waiting a polite stretch for a response. Then going on when all there was was more of that oppressive silence. "I never imagined you'd have been sleeping since before he called me," she half fibbed. "I've been here the better part of the evening myself now, so you've been out of it quite a while."

"**Who** did Samuel supposedly call?" Asked that same unnaturally still voice, this time so steeped in venom the witch almost let it get to her.

"Och, where are my manners?" She asked, executing a flourishy turn as she again reached the outer limit of her weaving space. "My name is Rowena MacLeod. I'm here by request of the Winchesters to assist in the readying of you and Dean for your transference to your new vessel. Which I will also be readying. With Castiel's assistance," she added, just to be clear.

"The Winchesters associate with your ilk?" Demanded the supernatural being whose utter contempt seemed, unexpectedly, to falter just a hair at the news.

"I believe it is _I_ who associate with _their_ 'ilk'," Rowena corrected with a raise of her chin. "After all, I am a particularly great and powerful witch. And I am also the reason for your sudden return to consciousness. You're welcome," she added with a smirk. One that grew when the hateful look leveled unwaveringly her way morphed instead, largely, to one of befuddlement.

"You're not removing the wardings, yet their effects are... lessening," the angel observed with a frown.

"In a way, yes; in another, no," the witch said as she moved to bring herself to a better distance for conversation. Stopping, as casually as possible, after just the one step, when the bedridden being stiffened noticeably. Perhaps readying to lash out. Perhaps suddenly keenly aware of who wielded the power around there. Either way, she continued from where she stood.  
"I'm essentially softening one element of the sigils while reinforcing another. You may notice that your ability to smite is now completely out of your reach? Conversely, you've already regained your ability to heal yourself. Or at least, _some_ of the ability. Again, you're welcome."

"You, a Godforsaken witch, are helping _me_? The preeminent denizen of His true Heaven?" The biblical being half demanded, half queried. "I take it then that you know Dean?" He concluded with a squint, the remainder of his glower leaning towards the quizzical.

"Aye, we've been acquainted a number of years now. He's done me a few good turns and I him in return," the witch confirmed, taking an unthinking step forward as she spoke. Stopping once again when the bedridden being's expression reverted to something **ugly**.

A protracted moment of her standing still though and the threatening edge bled from the look as the angel in the bed relaxed just a hair. Ready to continue their conversation.

"And how did a witch as 'great and powerful' as yourself, someone who has obviously been practicing her craft longer than this infantile excuse for a country has _existed_, become beholden to these bumbling buffoons?"

"_Beholden_? Dear, you've got it all wrong," Rowena informed, a trill of genuine laughter escaping her at the thought.

"Have I? Then pray tell exactly what sort of sway they hold over you," the unamused one demanded, tone hard.

"Monetary," the witch said with another giggle, enjoying the look of confusion transforming the invalid's face, surprisingly, into something almost... familiar. "They're _paying_ me for my services, deary."

Seeming not to appreciate the endearment, the guileless confusion disappeared from the stranger's face in an instant, erasing any and all thoughts Rowena may have had of making any more inroads with the being this particular conversation.  
Instead, the spellcaster moved back to the walls she'd been reworking, again ignoring the eyes following her every move, and picked back up for her final round. Rather relieved when the perpetual threat to her back allowed her to work in peace.

Upon completion of her weaving, the witch tied off in a way that would leave no room for tampering and turned to offer a polite incline of her head to the newly revived planet ravager. A planet ravager she was almost surprised was no longer staring daggers her way.

Rather pleased by instead the reflexive glower the primordial being responded with, Rowena gave a smirk and pushed her way out of the enchanted place and back into the mundane world.  
If a place as heavily warded and sealed as the Winchester's bunker could truly be referred to as 'mundane', anyway.

**Poor archangel can't comprehend the concept of a witch being 'good'. He must never have seen The Wizard Of Oz! XD**


	31. What Are We Waiting For?

**Whew. Well, that could have gone worse. Or better. At least Rowena and Michael have met and everyone's still alright!**

When the witch _finally_ made her excessively dramatic exit from Michael's warded lodgings, it took Castiel great effort not to roll his eyes.  
He found though that he couldn't quite hold back a rather satisfying, "What took so long?"

The look it got him was worth the ungodly long wait.

"Oh, I'd love to see _you_ attempt what I just did and come out **half** this successful," challenged the egotistical woman.

"So it worked then? You were able to heal Michael?" The angel asked, brow furrowed farther than he'd expected.

"Oh, Castiel, dearie, I didn't go in there to _heal_ the blighter; I went in there to let him heal himself."

The sudden spike of adrenaline at the first half of the witch's rather condescending statement nearly had Castiel clutching his chest. Or reaching for a weapon.  
Thankfully, he must have hidden the compulsion well enough, for the shimmering magic user simply stood a little taller and preened expectantly.

"And exactly _how_ did you go about that?" The relieved angel asked, soon as his heart had settled back down from its inconsiderate jump up into his throat.

"A witch never reveals her secrets," the woman replied with a Cheshire like smirk. Going on when Cas only blinked. Unamusedly.  
"Och, _fine_, you can go and check on the brute if you're **that** concerned, but know that all I did was rebalance the wardings so that his destructive powers have been completely sealed and his _con_structive ones given just a wee bit of wiggle room."

"Thus the purported 'healing himself'?" Castiel queried, all dubiousness.

"Thus the _actualized_ healing himself," the witch corrected. All confidence.

"...Yes. That is good news," Cas allowed, hoping his expression didn't give away any lingering doubts.

"Well, now that this whole 'coma' situation has been dealt with, I'll want a look at this new vessel you've secured the archangel," Rowena declared, clapping her hands together in a rather excitable manner.

"Uh, about that," Cas said, forcing himself not to avert his eyes at the sudden sharp look the witch sent him.

"Let me guess: You _haven't_ secured the new vessel?" She asked, eyes accusing.

"No, but we've been in contact with the care facility and the transfer request _has_ now been granted," the angel assured, maintaining as close to a genial tone as he could muster under such scrutiny.

"I was under the impression that things were **already** lined up," the unhappy witch leveled his way.

"Mary and a squadron of Sam's Apocalypse hunters are scheduled to make the trip, first thing in the morning," assured the angel, spine relaxing when the witch's glare lost some of its edge.

"Alright then. At least Dean and the archangel will be ready when we are," she decided with a quick nod. "Now, if there isn't any more pressing business, I think I'll avail myself of my suite and enjoy a nice, long, _uninterrupted_ soak while we await dear Mary's departure."

And without another word, the witch was off, leaving Castiel alone and befuddled as ever.

Putting the chair he'd used through his rather lengthy wait back where it belonged, the heavenly caretaker contemplated the medical tent. Wondering, with a vague sense of unease, what exactly he'd see if he went inside.

Being fairly confident that Rowena wouldn't have done anything to jeopardize the safety of anyone in the bunker —considering she too was indeed **in** the bunker—, Castiel was therefore near certain that nothing untoward had taken place within.

Still, standing there in the middle of that deserted ward, he found himself wavering between taking the now long gone witch at her word, and going immediately to check on her 'good' work.  
Eventually Cas decided that it made every sense for him to want to check on his heavenly relation no matter who had been visiting and for what purpose. After all, it had been far too long since he'd personally checked in on the injured archangel as it was.

Decision reached, the angel squared his shoulders and made for the splotchy front flap, pushing his way through with only a moment's hesitation. Stopping dead though when that old, tired feeling of heavy oppression didn't hit him the way it always did. More like a thick blanket over his senses than the brick wall to the face he'd become so very used to.

Then he felt something that shocked him to his core: a resonance whose familiarity undercut even the most basic of his angelic perceptions; a bond that he hadn't been sure he'd ever be lucky enough to feel again. A bond so profound, he'd felt utterly alone without its presence.

"Dean?" He asked of the figure in the bed, surprised when his voice managed to crack on the simple syllable.

"Mm?"

At the low, barely audible grunt, Castiel suddenly found himself pressed against the railing and sheets of the medical bed, barely holding himself back from bending low and checking the inhabitant's vitals.  
"Dean, is that you?" He asked, not caring that his throat hardly got the sounds out at all. Too engrossed in his study of the unbelievably no longer utterly pulverized form of his best friend.

"Who's askin'?" Asked the face miraculously now only brushed by light greens and yellows and swelling so mild as to be practically negligible.

"Dean, it's me, Castiel. How are you feeling?" The overwhelmed angel asked, his own eyes threatening to dew as he watched his friend's uninjured one work itself open.

"Oh, hey, Cas... What's shakin'?" Came again that oh-so familiar voice, following that oh-so familiar eye finding his face and studying it longer than it might usually have needed to.

"What's 'shaking' is that it is very possible I have never been more pleased to see you," the angel admitted, grin growing even as the man staring up at him showed no sign of comprehension.

"...What?" Dean asked, confirming the apparent lack of understanding.

"I am happy to see you," Cas reiterated, a bit slower. Hoping the simplification would help.

"...What for?"

"It's just, it's been so long and- I'm glad to see you so well. And awake," Cas admitted, not wanting to trouble the obviously confused hunter with unnecessary detail.

"Why was I sleepin'?"

"Because you were... injured," Castiel informed, trying not to let fear take hold when his friend's eye fluttered shut part way through his explanation. Realizing though that Dean must simply be tired when it opened back up a protracted moment later.

"Oh. Explains the digs," the hunter mused with a languid look around the medical tent.

"It was the best way to keep you and Michael while you recovered," Castiel informed, wanting to kick himself for his indiscretion when all it did was bring a crease to his friend's brow.

"Someone else here?" Dean asked, unexpectedly attempting to glance around his visitor.

"Uh, no, not at the moment" Cas said, moving just enough to allow Dean to confirm it for himself.

"Huh, weird. Thought there was... for a sec."

"Hm," the angel said, distracted for a moment when he noticed a certain other soul peeking out at him from behind that tired eye.

"What's up, Cas? You okay?" Asked the only half-awake human, seeming genuinely concerned for his visitor.

"Uh, I'm fine, thank you," Cas assured with a start, not having realized his expression had changed. "Though _you_ on the other hand are looking a little tired. Perhaps some sleep would do you good?" He suggested, schooling his face to offer a reassuring smile as he did.

"Oh. Yeah," the hunter said. Sounding to the angel like the thought hadn't crossed his mind. "Night, Cas," he bade, letting his drooping eyelid slide the rest of the short distance shut.

"Good night, Dean."

And with that, Cas stepped back from the bed. Putting a safe distance between himself and the archangel he could this time **sense** swapping places with his slumbering friend.

"We both are healthy enough for our own bodies once more," Michael announced, sounding rather like he was talking to himself. Before turning his attention to his visitor and giving the angel a good, imperious, looking over.  
"Hello, Castiel. Enjoy your little tête-à-tête?" The archangel asked, tone for once closer to taunting than threatening.

"Yes. Though I'm not sure you're yet capable of understanding how deeply," Cas insisted, for some reason not feeling the need to guard his emotions around his heavenly relation that evening.

"Tch, you remind me of Samuel; all softhearted sentimentality and goodwill," Michael informed with a scoff, insinuating that the qualities were not in fact desirable ones.

"You know that sounded like a compliment?" Castiel informed anyway.

"Take it as you will. I still insulted you," smirked the angelic being trapped in his own bed.

"I'm not so sure," Cas mused with a small smirk of his own.

"Do not mistake my good mood for joviality, Castiel. The witch may have allowed me to heal myself, but she didn't change the depth of contempt I hold for my captors," Michael warned, honestly beginning to look more tired than resentful.

"Well, be that as it may... Thank you, Michael. I know what you've done for Dean and I know that you didn't have to," Cas informed with a sincere nod.

"Had I not, _you_ would have, and have you looked in a mirror lately? If you'd killed yourself trying to heal him —and I wouldn't put such a thing past a one of you single-minded simpletons— Samuel and his mother would have lain the blame at my feet. It was purely self-serving," the archangel assured, even as he could barely keep his eye open any longer.

"Rest, brother. You've done enough for today. Tomorrow you meet your new vessel," Castiel assured, denying the sudden compulsion to offer his relation a reassuring pat.

"Don't- don't call me... that," the heavenly being demanded, displeasure obvious even as the last of the energy bled from his frame and his eye closed of its own accord.

Castiel couldn't help but smile down as the exhausted archangel fell swiftly into the waiting embrace of a regenerative sleep. Knowing then, with far more certainty than he had before, that Michael did indeed possess a conscience. Or some form of empathy. Or, in the very least, some moral code which dictated he repay, in his own way, the kindness of others.  
It was a beautiful thing to think.

And as the other exhausted heavenly being left the medical tent, intent on acquiring a few hours of sleep for himself, he realized that he'd sold Rowena short.  
She _had_ made more progress in there than he could have **hoped** to. And in such a short time. And she hadn't demanded extra compensation for it either, even though the ward hadn't been part of their original deal.

Then a strange thought occurred to Cas, as he made his way down the hall and toward his quarters: that trust between him and the flamboyant, surprisingly magnanimous witch... no longer felt such an impossibility.  
If she didn't give him any more reasons _not_ to, that is.

**Ooh, Mary's going off on a top secret mission? Righteous! Hope Michael likes his new forever vessel!**


	32. The Retrieval

**The Winchester mama is at it again! Here's a little peak in at Mary on her all important vessel retrieval mission!**

Mary didn't necessarily like lying. Never mind that she was good at it or that it came with the hunting territory. The way people took her at her word when she **knew** she was lying to their faces always rubbed her wrong.

Sure, it was a vital part of the job, something she'd been taught to rely on since before she'd learned that the rest of the world didn't know monsters were real, but that didn't make it easier to tell a grieving parent that their suddenly _literally_ heartless kid had died in a freak 'animal attack'. Not when she knew werewolves were real.  
And it _certainly_ didn't make it any easier to bite her tongue against warning them that if the victim's possessions weren't burned, the family might just be in for a nasty, unintentional haunting.

Deanne, her mother, rest her soul, hadn't necessarily liked the covert nature of their family business either, but Mary'd never seen another hunter turn a phrase or spin a tale quite like her. Gal would have you eating out the palm of her hand and begging for seconds before she'd even wiped the last of the vamp blood off her face. Saying something like, "Oh, this old thing? No, I always have one of these on me. Never know when you might need to pitch a tent!"  
And you'd walk off wondering where the nearest campground was. Never minding that that stake she'd slipped into the back of her skirt band had had just a little too much heart tissue on it to be any kind of camping equipment.

Poor woman may not have liked it, but she'd understood that the misdirections and deception could sometimes be the difference between a lovely little private funeral and a full-blown, 'she told me my son was going to haunt me from beyond the grave,' witch hunt.  
So she'd taught her daughter all the tricks. Made her practice in front of a mirror until Mary'd got _herself_ believing that the sky was actually God's beautiful blue swimming pool, the sun was a flaming meatball that'd rolled off his plate, and the moon was just it's nighttime reflection.

Yep, keen sense of preservation and a knack for prevarication —with or without a particular gift for gab— and you had the makings of a solid hunter. So long as you could also swing a machete. And outrun a rougarou. Long enough to kill it, anyway.

All things Mary and her mother had been somewhere between decent and _damn_ good at. And just like her mother, any guilt Mary may or may not have felt over the sort of things she had to do and say on the job were negligible when compared to the satisfaction that came with a successful hunt.  
Not to say that it didn't still nag. At least when the lying got serious.

Thankfully, in situations like the one Mary was driving away from fast as local traffic enforcements would overlook, that sense of wrongdoing- that 'hunter's guilt' she'd spent the better part of her life learning to deal with? It'd completely melted away the moment she'd been shown in to see her newest 'patient'. Because the moment she met this new Michael, this Michael who was soon going to give their Michael a brand new home on earth, a very important fact had finally solidified for her:  
Dean was about to be a free man. For good.

So she'd signed the transfer papers with an uncrackable professionalism and directed her 'nurses' and new patient out the side door and into one of the Apocalypse Hunter fleet's vans without a shred of that old weight on her conscience.

Sure, she'd just impersonated a doctor, falsified official documentation and perjured a signature, all while conniving to **steal** a human being, but for once the lies hadn't taken an ounce of effort. And even forty miles down the road, glancing at the gurney just visible in her rear view mirror, taking up the majority of the van's cargo space, Mary wasn't regretting a single thing. Not if her Dean was getting his life back because of it.  
Not if it'd get Sam and Castiel their best friend back.

Not if she was getting her son back.

And it was true: she **was** getting her son back. Maybe even that same day, depending on how much more prep Castiel and the witch still had to do after she got back. After they'd had a chance to meet the new Michael themselves. Seeing as the spellcaster'd said something about needing to 'experience this new vessel's energy' for herself. In order to do the final prep for the 'transference'.

Passing up another small, sleepy town, Mary had to bite her lip against the urge to put her foot down and double the limit, all the way home. After all, she didn't want any extra attention brought to the rolling bed secured to the van's floor, flanked on either side by hunters who had a background in medicine.  
And _definitely_ not to the figure strapped carefully to said rolling bed. For that matter.

Instead the extremely responsible driver radioed their progress in to headquarters. Then asked whether her close to silent entourage was okay with the oldies station.  
A few affirmatives later and she was sliding the dial through white noise until a voice she recognized came through the speakers. Then the whole van was humming along to The Eagles. Mary hoping that a little of that Peaceful Easy Feeling of theirs rubbed off on her. Before she stopped caring what those little numbers posted on the side of the highway meant and gunned it on down the road.

Still, every mile she kept it below seventy was another miracle in her book. Considering every minute that passed was another minute Dean was forced to share his body with someone who, in Mary's book, didn't deserve what they were giving him: a second chance.

When she thought about it, that drive was all about second chances. A second chance for Sam and Castiel to live and laugh alongside the third member of their team.  
A second chance at a life outside of archangel-proof walls for said missing team member. As well as for the terrible, larger than life force possessing him.

And a second chance for Mary to be a good mother to her boys. Boys she'd died trying to protect and then neglected as soon as she'd been reunited with them.  
Boys who'd spent _decades_ thinking she was gone for good.

Boys who still believed their mom could beat up yours _and_ save the world before bedtime.

Mary couldn't help the smile at the thought. Then, when old Blue Eyes filtered through the radio, singing about how he'd like to be flown to the moon so he could play among the stars, the mother on a mission loosened her grip on the steering wheel and turned up the volume. Checking her passengers still liked the music selection before letting her foot press just a hair harder on that gas pedal. After all, another two miles an hour wasn't gonna hurt anything, but the increased speed was already calming the worst of her anxieties. Reassuring her that they couldn't possibly get back too late.

'Too late' for what, she couldn't say. But Mary wasn't letting that drive take a moment longer than it absolutely needed to. She owed it to her boys.

**Hope this little tidbit helped get the dear readers' weekends off to a good start!**  
**Next chapter will feature an all-star cast with appearances by Auntie Rowena, Confused Castiel, Worried Sam, Concerned Mary, and a seemingly Impassive Michael meeting his new vessel for the first time!**

**Also: I'm so happy to see the first chunk of season 15 up on Netflix. Almost makes it feel like things are moving along normally, in a funny little way! : )**


	33. Preperations

**Finally, the plans have come together and Team Free Will is just about ready for the píes de resistance!**

"Uh... wakey-wakey?" The unfortunate sound which jarred the archangel from his restful contemplation of the inside of his vessel's eyelids.

He sent a well earned glare in the direction of his bumbling interrupter, feeling in some small way satisfied when the hunter froze where he was.  
"Samuel," he greeted, not bothering to conceal his annoyance.

"Michael," the arguably intelligent life form greeted back.

"I assume there was a _reason_ for your intrusion?" Michael prompted when all the monolithic moron did was stand there and gawp.

"Right, uh, yeah, of course," the dolt sputtered. Before taking a breath and starting anew.  
"Your new vessel's here. Cas and Rowena think you should come meet him."

At that, Michael only just held back an unbecoming look of surprise. Managing instead to temper his reaction to one of muted interest.  
"About time," he decided upon when it appeared Samuel was expecting a verbal reaction as well.

"Heh, yeah, who knew finding a new vessel would take so long?" Mused the human, displaying the decency to at least be ashamed of his and his team's many, _many_ inadequacies.

"I suppose I should be pleased the search didn't take **longer**," Michael allowed, mood lightening at the thought of hard won freedom.

Before the human could respond, there came a noise from outside the hideous tent which drew all eyes to the entrance.

"Okay, Sam, I got the paint," informed the other at large Winchester, shouldering her way in the opening flap. One arm weighed down by a bucket laden itself with vials of a red, viscous liquid and brushes of varying size and length.  
"Oh, I didn't know we were waking him up _first_," said the human who no longer appeared eager to be there.

"Yeah, I figured, if he woke up that easy, we wouldn't want to start painting and wake him up on accident," the younger explained, once again displaying the decency to look ashamed on his useless team's behalf.

"Mm, you've got a point there," the elder conceded, setting her bucket on the floor between herself and her son. Dusting her hands as she straightened to survey their guest.  
"Well, am I cuffing him, or do you wanna do the honors?"

The archangel stiffened at the mere suggestion. Then stiffened further when the taller jailer turned to him, eyes determined.

"I'll do it," said the serious faced Samuel. Pulling the offending things from a rear pocket and making for the bed with steps that didn't falter. Not even when Michael turned his unamused stare into a fully realized glower.

Once at his side, the hunter looked down at the immobilized archangel, studying him, no doubt, for evidence of hostility. Trying to figure the best way to go about his task without being dismembered. Thinking hard enough that Michael could almost _see_ the steam coming out his ears.

"If I hand these to you, you give me your word you'll cuff yourself? No funny business?"

_That_ earned him a reprieve from the archangel's glare. And a gasp from the older, _wiser_ hunter, pausing from her unpacking to gape at her son.

"Sam," warned the woman, expression akin to steel. Terrified steel.

"It's okay, Mom, I-"

"You should listen to your mother, Samuel. Trusting me wouldn't be in _anyone's_ best interest," the ender of worlds insisted. Earning himself a matching pair of narrowed eyes from the thoroughly forewarned hunters.

With a vague motion toward the bed though, the younger Winchester started again.  
"You're not at full strength, neither is Dean; you have no **hope** of escaping. You'd be acting in your _own_ best interest. Besides," the naive youth added with an earnest raise of his chin, "your word's been good enough for me so far."

To that, Michael, like the woman holding a brush in her either hand, could only stare.

"Fine. You have my word," he agreed, at length. Voice flatter than he'd meant it to be.

And so the all too trusting, all too close hunter leaned his hulking torso _closer_ and pulled the warded sheet slowly, carefully back. Just far enough to free the arms of a being who'd, in a different universe, destroyed **cultures** with less.

When the archangel gave the previously pinned things an experimental flex, he caught the way the more experienced hunter's shoulders bunched, ready to spring to her youngest's aid at the first sign of aggression.

He sent her a smirk for her concern.

To her credit, the woman's only reaction was to narrow her eyes that last bit smaller.

"Nice and slow," Samuel warned, setting the coiled handcuffs on the bed before taking a half step back. Demonstrating savvy enough at least to stay out of reach of an easy maiming.

Michael regarded the odious things with a well practiced scowl, not in any way interested in putting himself in chains. Especially not ones inscribed with sigils identical to those he'd had to suffer the indignity of for far too long. In a Room he'd sooner die than spend another day an unwilling prisoner within.

But, when a human throat cleared itself of some imaginary annoyance, the archangel conceded that he was unimaginably **less** interested in suffering the scathing humiliation of being forced into said chains by a mere mortal. A class of being so far removed from God's grace as to be biologically unfit to so much as _look_ upon one so resplendent as-

A second, more insistent clearing of a throat had Michael flicking a glare at the peon posted by his bed. The strangely somber look waiting for him though mollified his ire well enough that he soon returned his attention to the task at hand.

And so it was with much _deep-seated_ reluctance that the heavenly being grabbed the accursed artifact and proceeded to —'nice and slow'— bind himself in enchanted irons.

"There, that wasn't so bad," chided the man standing by a cataclysm waiting to happen.

Judging by the involuntary flinch though, the death glare Samuel received in rebuttal _was_, in fact, 'so bad'.

After the hunter recovered from his rightful fright, it was mere minutes before the archangel found himself following an apprehensive Mary Winchester through an utterly repellent exit flap and out into a medical ward he'd only ever seen in his vessel's memories.  
Then they walked. Samuel and his mother pointing the way and their prisoner setting the pace. No one foolish enough to try and hurry the cosmic entity when he chose to take his time and 'enjoy' the stroll.

After all, it was Michael's first foray outside either the ma'lak box or his new heavily warded and enchanted lodgings. Or, rather, the first he'd undertaken under his own power.

Yes, he was shackled, flanked by armed guards, and his vessel's usual slovenly garments were now utterly **coated** in atrocious sigil work, but the circumstances didn't sully the illusion of free will. An illusion which he allowed himself indulge in as long as it held. And it held all the way up to the moment he forded the warded space his bungling keepers had at some point mentioned the magic users were in progress preparing for the transference.

Inside waited the witch, the angel, and a living, breathing, human body glowing ever so imperceptibly with the beginnings of security measures he'd be living with for the lifetime of the meat sack. Which, for all he knew, could be until the end of time. If the myriad magical interferences didn't also cut down his natural God-given immortality.

There, for some unfathomable reason, Michael stopped and his feet refused to carry him past the threshold. The guards to his either side merely stood in mute confusion. Waiting for him to make his next move.

Surprisingly, it was the featherbrain by the 'operating table' who broke the tense silence.

"Do not worry, brother, this is not meant as another cage for you to simply exist within; this vessel will be your freedom," the angel said with a laughably earnest expression. Perhaps thinking the _arch_angel somehow frightened of the thing.

"Yeah, Michael, if it helps, think of it this way: If Dean's your sword, then Michael, your new vessel, he'll be your shield," the taller Winchester to his side said without prompting. No doubt having come to the same, ridiculous conclusion.

"They're right," the eldest hunter among them offered, clearly caught up in the same delusion as her peers. "With this new body, you'll be able to live a life away from that hideous metal box, get out of that dingy medical ward, and never have to wear those handcuffs ever again."

The slight shade of pity to the woman's voice goaded Michael's resolve and with but a single fortifying breath, he'd overcome his hesitation and was followed by his escort to what would soon be his permanent home on this alternate earth. Stopping an arm's length from the table so as not to ruffle the magic users standing to its either side. Any more than his mere presence so clearly was.

"He is smaller than I imagined," the first words that came to the archangel's mind as he gave his new vessel a first impression. "He did not look like this at the beginning of his life," Michael informed as a piece of angelic insight came to him. "He was known by a different name then. Yes-"

"And that miracle also is a part of our reasoning. You see-"

"_I_ too sense the residue of miracles clinging to his bones," the archangel said with a sharp look his relation's way, not appreciating being interrupted. Going on only when the lesser angel averted his eyes.  
"Yes, the four of you are right: If this vessel does not work, then none shall," the archangel declared, nod as final as the locking of a shut door.

"That's not _exactly_-"

"I grow weary," Michael said, cutting off Castiel's denial without an ounce of concern. "Escort me to my chambers that your angel and your witch might ready my vessel while I rest," he ordered of his guards, managing to look down his nose at both of them as he did. Regardless the fact that the majority of Samuel's face was _above_ his brother's.

"Right," the youngest Winchester said, moving along with his mother into reverse formation to do just that. "Uh, let us know if you need anything, Cas, Rowena. We should be back soon anyway," the milksop assured as he took his place.

"There's no rush," the angel informed, starting a clockwise circuit around the table. Concentration absorbed, when Michael paused to check, by the vessel laying at its center. Almost like a pretentious artist studying their living, breathing canvas. "This promises to be a rather... _involved_ process."

"Yes, dearies, in fact, perhaps it'd be best if we weren't disturbed for a wee bit. The fundamentals are often the trickiest part," supplied a witch who's eyes were already glowing, offering her an insight no doubt altogether different from his own. Or Castiel's.

"Okay, call if you can't see straight anymore. We'll spell you; let you get some shut-eye and food," Mary said as she adjusted her stance by Michael's side to the precise distance she seemed to prefer. Slightly closer than Samuel stood. Likely to compensate for their differences in stature and arm length.

"Thank you," said a distracted Castiel, in the middle of a close inspection of one of the vessel's forearms. "I expect it won't be necessary, but I will call if I require respite or sustenance."

"And I'll require tea in precisely two hours," informed the witch who, aside from blinking a time or two, hadn't yet moved from her observation spot.

"Great, we'll leave you to it then," the great oaf said as he hastened to keep up with his mother and their long term 'guest'. Both of whom had started off while he'd been distracted saying his unnecessary goodbyes.

**Ha, it's good Michael approves of his forever vessel! Things might've been harder if he didn't!**


End file.
